Thicker Than Water
by Little Tanuki
Summary: “Firewall” AU: Some time after the outbreak of war, Julian Bashir is back on Earth, but finds trouble even there.
1. Part One: BLOOD

**Alternate Timeline: What if Julian Bashir had not been allowed to remain in Starfleet?**

**Note: The following narrative begins several weeks after the AU story, "Dust of Life", and roughly parallel to season six episode, "You are Cordially Invited". It will reference some previously introduced elements, but whether you wish to read this story first or last is entirely up to you.**

**I do not own Star Trek. If I did, I would be writing full time and living in a big house by the sea. …And Dukat would never have shacked up with Kai Winn. _Yeuch_.**

**On with the story.**

* * *

**Part One**

**BLOOD**

* * *

"I thought Doctor Bell said it wasn't a good idea for you to be reading those things."

Julian remained fixed in his chair - with so little movement that he might as well have been a stone. Still positioned in front of the display, he continued to stare at the shifting names in front of him. But perhaps Corinna had a point. He'd been watching that screen for so long already that he'd barely even noticed the dull pain creeping along his legs and into his eyes.

He did not respond immediately to Corinna's entry - nor to her gentle admonition. But it was quickly apparent that she had made no further active endeavours to stop her cousin's persistent ritual. He'd already broken through her last three attempts to encrypt the official transmissions. Each understood as well as the other that even if she forced him away from the console, there were plenty of other corners to hide in. He could find the same information in any one of those places - and he was certainly determined enough to keep on searching.

"You know as well as I do." Julian sighed, but maintained his focus on the smoothly ascending list. He noted a slight shift in the air as Corinna moved to stand behind him. "As long as Starfleet keeps posting these things, I'm going to keep on reading them."

The casualty reports continued to scroll relentlessly up the screen, multiple columns burning into his memory until his head ached with the accumulating pressure of them all. There was always the occasional one he recognised. A classmate from medical school. Or an old friend that he hadn't seen since childhood. Occasionally, even a passing acquaintance from his early days on Deep Space Nine.

Whenever he saw another of these familiar names, he would whisper it aloud, as if to bring substance to a life hidden just beyond the marks on his cousin's computer screen.

_But you always knew it was inevitable. You knew that these people were doomed - known it for years. And if not them, then it would almost certainly have been somebody else_. It was all a matter of numbers. He'd seen the rapid advance of war in the close of every day, years before the fighting had begun - and for an even longer time before he'd been prepared to admit to the suspicions in his heart.

_And where were you_? he demanded of himself. _Where were you when the station was taken, and reclaimed_?_ Even now - with your friends still fighting their battles_? Light years from the frontline and even further from those who could have used his help. Distant, detached - reduced to sitting in front of consoles, and futilely watching the parade of endless, faceless names.

Still, nobody had ever ordered him not to keep watch.

Like so many before it, this Friday evening vigil ended in a slow outward breath as he released the fretful tension from across his back and shoulders. "I have no choice," Julian half whispered, momentarily closing his eyes. "It's far from pleasant to be reading all these names, especially knowing what they mean. But it would be even worse not to. You can understand that, can't you?"

Finally, he turned around.

With a sigh, Corinna brushed away a strand of her own long, tangled hair. "I _would _try to convince you otherwise, if I thought it would do any good."

"I won't stop you from trying," replied her cousin.

This time, a shake of Corinna's head was accompanied by a quietly melancholy smile. "Good night, Julian."

"Night," he responded, but without a doubt that his watchful companion had noticed his distraction.

* * *

_There were already anxious murmurs about the first signs of imminent conflict. But others persisted in claiming that he ought not to concern himself with what the rumours were saying. After all, they said, the approach of war would have little effect on the course of his life. But those people had forgotten, and failed to hear when he tried to tell them. Regardless of all the constant attempts at reassurance, regardless of how little he could do to change anything, those defending the Bajoran sector were still his friends._

_Word reached him on the day before he was set to leave. The Dominion had taken Deep Space Nine. But what could he have done anyway? those same voices had demanded of him. There were those responsible for deciding the course of war, but they no longer had any use for him. He was far too weary to think up a challenge as to why they should._

_A shuttle arrived with the very next dawn - a sleek grey vessel with barely a mark across its surface. It was set to take Julian Bashir, along with several others, on a journey away from the source of the fighting. Watching through a dark, circular portal, he wondered if anyone had thought to learn the name of every star that would pass them by on their lengthy journey, and smiled sadly. A year or two ago, he might have found reason to try and find out for himself._

"_Earth…" he muttered, barely a sound forcing its way through a sudden constriction at the base of his throat. He felt the noticeable weight of past days return, and asked himself what his parents would think, if they knew how much the ways of the universe still escaped his understanding. Like this sudden, urgent need to return to the last place he would ever have expected to find himself again. What _was _it - some kind of inbuilt homing instinct? Already, it was far too stubborn in its refusal to release him from its hold._

_His was a basic enough cabin, simply furnished with a bed, table, chair, and a lone sculpture set onto an inward facing shelf upon the opposite wall. Doubtless its subtle curvature - slightly reminiscent of leaves - was supposed to make passengers feel at ease. But once Bashir had taken note of every shape along its edge, the presence of this pointless block of wood seemed only to augment his sense of cagey agitation._

_In yet another corner, a replicator waited, illuminated edges seeming to watch the room like the eye of a hungry Cyclops. _Suppose I ought to eat something_, he told himself, staring at the constantly gleaming surface until he suddenly noticed that he'd been counting the seconds as they passed._

Thirty five, thirty six, thirty seven…

_But he wasn't hungry, was he? He was tired, and ached to his core with the weight of broken ideals. He was sure that he should have wanted to eat, but no amount of willpower could force his appetite to come. _Perhaps later_. Curling onto the narrow bunk that had been attached to the wall of his quarters, Julian wrapped both arms around himself, and stayed in that same position for many times longer than he'd intended - too weary even to move as sleep proved to be as elusive as hunger._

Why bother? Really. What's the point?

_He ignored the persistent question at first, wanting nothing more than to push away every thought in his head, curl the sheets around him like a web around a fly, and surrender to the darkness. It was a fruitless endeavour, but he held to the hope that he might just sleep away the days of travelling - and with still more luck, every day afterward._

_The shuttle cabin was warm and comfortable - an even twenty five degrees in every corner. But he could not stop his imagination from wandering to the absolute chill of the universe outside. He sensed it waiting just beyond the outer hull, as if to spite the constant artificial comfort. Caught outside the shuttle's protective shield, without the security of an environmental suit, Julian's blood would boil like anyone else's, he would asphyxiate, and his body would be caught in an endless drifting somersault between the stars._

_In the scheduled "daylight" hours - when not holed up in his narrow quarters like a vole in its den - he would wander like a ghost about the corridors, acknowledging other passengers with a nod and a weakly patched-together smile, and only occasionally forcing himself to muster the energy for a conversation._

_Nights were still longer. As he lay on his back in the blanketing darkness, he would fill his thoughts with wishes and wonder if the time had finally come, if this was the night when he would finally find the sleep he so constantly sought. But luck was deceptive, he reminded himself in one of these nightly bouts of insomnia, and good fortune was growing increasingly difficult to hold onto. He might as well have been chasing after his own forgotten dreams._

_The shuttle drew closer to the end of its journey, and Julian noticed his thoughts turn increasingly towards their destination. Now gazing through the windows at the uninterrupted starscape, he tried to imagine what he might find once his feet connected with Terran soil._

_And he realised on one particularly quiet afternoon, with few people around to interrupt his thoughts, that he had very little idea of the answer_.

* * *

He had not seen Corinna since they were children - not since that week when she was twelve, and he was ten, and she and her family had come to visit his on Invernia II. It had come as a surprise to hear from her again - even more so to hear her unexpected offer of a place to stay as soon as he arrived on Earth.

She spoke with a strikingly unusual accent - a lasting consequence of all the time spent moving around, especially in her childhood and early teens. But she had still not entirely managed to shake away the legacy of her earliest years in Scotland. And that was where she'd come back to just days after her wedding day - to the antiquated wooden cottage she'd dreamed of sharing with her husband, Liam.

With another warm, familial smile, the tall, slender woman clasped Julian's shoulder, and quietly withdrew. Her footfalls were silent as she crossed to the exit, and the door slid closed behind her with a smooth, breezy hiss.

Julian Bashir was alone. Or at least, he hoped that he was. But he could see no further evidence that he was being observed. Glancing warily around him, he paused momentarily to bring his hands into view.

They were cold and unsteady, numb at the fingertips, and he was unable to stop their persistent shaking. Three days had passed since the first time he'd noticed. But now Julian remained seated for a long time after Corinna was gone, and clenched them tightly, one against the other. For today at least, he was glad that there was no longer anyone around to see.


	2. 2

With few exceptions in the course of the past week, early mornings on the hills surrounding Liam and Corinna's lowland home had been notably free of bad weather. The Sun glowed between two hilltops, radiant as liquid gold, and the exaggerated colours of a previous night's rainfall were outlined with suspended beads of dew. "Fairies collect them every morning," Corinna's eldest daughter reported sagely, pointing to a row of these gleaming dewdrops. "It's what they use to make jewels for their hair."

"Really?" asked Julian, feeling oddly curious.

Meg regarded him with a sagacious expression. "Everyone knows that."

"You're the expert."

Duly satisfied with this concession, Meg turned and trotted away down the winding grass-lined path. She'd picked up several handfuls of fresh heather along the way, and insisted that she was going to make a garland for her uncle's hair as soon as they arrived back at the house.

Corinna's home was an odd mixture of archaic and modern architecture, with an exterior as dark as the moistened soil that clung to the roots of thick, green moss. It was framed on every side by sloping hills, every one of which bore an uncanny resemblance to those he'd seen in the Kendra Province of Bajor.

On most days the balmy Summer breeze of that morning was entirely absent - replaced with a bone-piercing wind that rarely allowed any of the flora around them grow much taller than waist-height. Small, dark thickets were scattered across their path. But these were easy to dodge as the pair continued their morning stroll.

They noticed long before they came upon him that there was the figure of an old man approaching from the opposite direction. with a fishing rod propped over one broad shoulder, and the latest model computerised tracking device swinging freely from his belt. "Catch anything?" asked Julian. With a sunken grin that pushed his crinkled skin back like tissue paper, the old man held up a pair of limp, pinkish grey-trout he'd attached by the mouths to a length of narrow twine.

Julian returned the smile, but passed him by without another word. It was all the greeting they ever really needed. This elderly fisherman had not spoken in all the times they'd met upon this road, but he was a familiar enough sight that most of the locals had long since given up expecting him to.

A second dark figure passed them by, concealed beneath a bulky charcoal-grey raincoat, even though there had been no sign of approaching rain. This stranger overtook the small party with barely a glance to spare in their direction.

Watching the stranger's retreat into the distance, Julian continued to trudge down the slope, directly after his cousin's child. The chill of mid morning was fresh in the air. It scraped their skin, seeming to penetrate beneath the surface, and turned each outward breath to expanding clouds of grey-white steam. As they silently changed direction, Julian paused to survey the colourful scene before continuing his diagonal descent across the slope. Meg's high pitched voice was loud and constant in his ears.

"We were all up there one time. And me and Father went together on one of those buggies. Like the ones people used to ride in the olden days. They all go like, _up and down_… _up and down_… Just like that. You have to wear a special suit when you ride a moon buggy. But only me and Father went. 'Cause Tessa couldn't come with us when she was only a bairn…"

The eight year old girl continued her chatter as Julian glanced up at the near-perfect circle in the sky. Luna's craters were arranged like a watching face, clear silver against the unbroken blue of the Terran atmosphere, and with the slightly uneven form of Tycho City stretched across part of its surface. He smiled.

* * *

Sunlight was tracing a soft halo across the top of the young girl's hair as she stepped away from the man beside her and closer to the riverside. It was a similar colour to her father's, slightly lighter perhaps. In the direct light it took on the shade of fresh almond husks, with perhaps just a hint of copper-red. But she was dark like her mother, and her eyes were a clear nut-brown, perpetually curious, round and bright like those of a foraging chipmunk.

It was a fine morning, even though for all Julian knew at that time, there may well have been storms raging elsewhere far away. He positioned himself on a moss-covered log, with fine, brown fragments crumbling wetly from its surface, and watched Meg play at the river's edge The girl crouched low on the rocks as she reached for shiny pebbles like a cat swatting at a fish.

So. This was Earth. Sunlight was clear through the shivering leaves above, painting their edges with hair-thin filaments of gold. The water of the river was fresh and musical. Clasping his hands against each other, Julian leaned a little forward and glanced about him. He wondered at the residual unease that had continued to plague him since dawn - but he was far from unaccustomed to feeling uneasy. Perhaps it was silly to be still so worried.

Shadows moved in the nearby darkness, mottled and half-camouflaged but not entirely out of sight. Bashir frowned, blinking twice, and taking barely a moment to recall that dry and patchy off-black coat, worn by the stranger who had passed them on the way.

"Morning," called Bashir.

The man turned, slow and deliberate, a vaguely portentous scowl fixed upon his face like the grooves on an old stone carving. Then finally, as though only just remembering that he could - or was supposed to - say something in return, the stranger's gruff voice coughed up a single word. "Mor'n."

With an invisible shudder, Julian turned away again. "Don't go too far," he called to Meg as she jumped onto one of the larger stones that broke the flow of water.

Meg's curious gaze flicked from Julian to the near-silent newcomer as one approached the other. He noticed from the corner of his eye that she had balanced on her rock to watch him rise from his own temporary perch. "Beautiful day," said one of the men at the river bank, attempting once more to draw the other into conversation.

The dark-clad stranger nodded slowly. Meg continued to watch, now turning a smooth, white pebble around and around in both hands.

"Er… Do you come here often?" One more try, he decided, and then he would give up all attempts to make new friends. He was met with only silence, but then offered his hand for his gloomy companion to shake. "I don't believe we've met before now. I'm Julian…"

When the stranger turned once more to face him, his new expression was eerily disconcerting - near impossible to understand. For a moment, Bashir felt like a child reaching for a rope or a string, tied to something light and gaudy that was constantly drifting beyond his gasp. Even with his enhanced mind and usually flawless understanding, he struggled to identify the thoughts behind that outer mask. Were there answers in the shape of the stranger's eyes? Or perhaps the way he was gradually fashioning his mouth into a wicked, insincere smile?

"Are you…?" Julian started to say, his feeble attempts at a greeting now giving way to an expression of marked concern.

The man's hands shot like a leaping snake to curl around his tall companion's throat.

Julian Bashir fell, toppling backwards without a moment's warning to collide with the stones of the river, the stranger's thick fingers wrapped with bruising force against the skin of his neck and shoulders. The last thing he heard, before all other sound was blocked by the rush of water to his ears, was a long, high, panicked scream.

_Don't hurt her._

But his attacker showed little interest in Meg. Two powerful hands clasped Julian's throat, tight enough to block the passage of air - even if he _had _been in any position to take a breath. He struggled, feet sliding uselessly on the algae coated rock. But those same hands had him trapped below the surface as icy water forced away what little he had managed to snatch into his lungs.

A shadow above him - rendered close to black against the white of a passing cloud - rippled and shifted through the surface of the water. Time, vision, even the form of his attacker above him all melting together into a featureless, darkening blur…

The shapes moved backwards, straightening a little, and turned around. Hands still holding him tensed again - but even now he sensed through the rush of cold water that the stranger's attention had been snatched away by something on the shore.

The stranger's grip released its hold upon his neck. Julian found himself drifting, struggling aimlessly against the tug of the water. And then there were hands, strong and sure beneath his arms. Reaching down to guide him back to the safety of dry land.

* * *

He looked up at the circle of faces that peered at him from every side. Corinna was close by, holding him in a half-sitting position with an arm around his shoulders. As his strength returned, her hand patted him firmly on the back, aiding his efforts to expel cold river water onto the nearby soil.

Others were watching from further away. The old fisherman from earlier that morning held fast to one arm of Julian's assailant, while a middle-aged Security officer had the other twisted up behind his back. A younger, smaller man - also in Security gold - stood less than a metre from his colleague, and held a small phaser to the chest of their most recent prisoner.

Only one face was missing.

"Meg…?" gasped Julian as soon as he was able.

"Liam's with her," Corinna replied, looking pale and shaken. Her voice was obscured by the fluid in Julian's ears, and sounded distorted as though by a great distance. "You gave her quite a scare. But she's out of any danger - thank goodness."

She tightened her grip on his upper back. "Can you stand?"

"I think - I think so," Julian choked, water still spilling in fat, heavy drops from the ends of his hair.

He forced himself up on trembling legs, and brought both arms around to clutch his chest, already starting to shudder from the frosty touch of the wind. He staggered, suddenly unsteady, and felt Corinna catch him by the shoulders. "Careful."

"Oops," Julian whispered. Even this poor attempt at a joke came out feeling more than a little forced. From the corner of his eye, he saw the man who had pushed him into the river, hands now clapped into a pair of gleaming metal restraints, dark eyes burning with inexplicable loathing.

"Why…?" the younger man started to say. He was not expecting an answer, and had no surprise that none was forthcoming. But it was difficult not to meet that hate-filled gaze.

Corinna's arm was shifting through his, and wrapping around his lower ribs - the better to prop her younger cousin up by the chest like a shop-manikin. She smiled an encouragement. "Hold on to my shoulders," she told him. "I'm stronger than I look, you know."

That claim, at least, was far from untrue. Whatever strength Julian currently lacked, she lent to him well. "Wait," he said through chattering teeth, barely able to form a sound. He frowned at the retreating Security men as they disappeared from sight with their prisoner still restrained - still glaring in Bashir's direction. _But… why_? he longed to ask again, even as the chill air numbed him to the core.

But instead he turned to the old man, who had stepped back from the vanishing Security officers and remained where he was, in watchful silence. "Thank you," Julian croaked, his head beginning to ache.

"No problem."

Stepping down to retrieve his gear from its place against the trunk of a nearby tree, the old man nodded to them - and retreated back up the hill. "Did he…?" Julian realised with some distant surprise, although his voice was hoarse and his mouth continued resist each attempt to force the formation of words. "Did he just… _talk_?"

"Come on," said Corinna, smiling as she patted his chest. "Let's get you inside."


	3. 3

"Well then," said his cousin. "You're the one who knows so much. What's the best thing for a time like this?"

Julian focused hard, until his thoughts shaped themselves into some kind of memory. "Hot drink," he remembered, finally. "Something sweet. Preferably bland… Black tea and sugar ought to do."

Corinna folded her arms across her chest and leant back slightly with a sigh of mock exasperation. "There are easier ways of getting me to fetch your drinks for you," she told him, arching one eyebrow. "Next time, just ask."

Julian huffed a little, releasing a weary, almost soundless chuckle. "No problem."

He longed to lie down right away, close his eyes and forget the numbing weight that pressed against his head and limbs. But his bones already ached from the bite of wind and water, evaporating enough to create an all over chill, but never quite enough to allow him to dry. He knew as well as anyone how important it was to get out of his waterlogged clothing and into something warmer before he could even consider giving in to his desire for rest.

Teeth still chattering, feeling pale and nauseated, and shuddering like a faulty wind-up toy, Julian was glad when the slick, soggy touch of half-wet fabric was exchanged for something thick and loose-fitting - and noticeably more comfortable. Corinna fetched a blanket, and settled him near a blazing hearth fire, in a large, encompassing armchair with the cover wrapped snugly around his shoulders.

He was not entirely certain at what point his shivering ceased, but he crossed his arms tightly, clutching the blanket to his chest until it covered him almost all the way. The gradual warmth came welcomely to Julian's body, but it was exhausting him, draining him of energy like a worm caught in the desiccating sun. He barely acknowledged the presence of Doctor Bell - who appeared, slightly flustered, at his side, with two stern-faced Security officers following shortly after the grey-haired doctor.

"Don't tire him," Bell cautioned the pair, although Bashir doubted that there was anything that could make him much tireder than he already felt, and doubted even more that there was a greater number of answers he could give them than he had questions of his own.

"What can you tell us about the man who attacked you?" This Security officer had introduced himself just moments ago, but revealed no more than his name - Lieutenant Commander Russell. "Anything? Enough to be able to recognise him if you saw him again?"

"I'd say so," replied Bashir. "He was there for a good five minutes at least, before anything happened."

_I'd wager Jake Sisko could come up with a better account than I can_, he thought, still more frustrated by each attempt to dredge up whatever details he could from the still-groggy cloud of his memory.

"Is he…?"

"We have him in a holding cell." Russell frowned slightly, drawing together a pair of wiry, tangled brows. He was tall, slightly haggard, but with a voice so deep and strong that it hardly seemed to match his otherwise elderly countenance. "He hasn't told us anything of consequence yet. But everyone does, eventually. So if you're holding back any information at all…"

"Wait a minute." Corinna had entered from the dining area, with coffee and biscuits arranged on a tray for the small assembly gathered in her living room. But she held back on offering the assortment of refreshments, scowling at each in turn from her place by the door. "Are you accusing Julian…?"

"Nobody's accusing anyone of anything." The Security officer was quick to respond. "But we really do need to be told, if either of you can think of any reason for this man to be holding a grudge against you."

_I can think of plenty_, thought Julian. But none of them made enough sense to put into words. Especially now, when he was so suddenly, unbearably tired.

_It's just the day catching up with you_, he told himself. _That's all_.

"I…" But then he shook his head. That wasn't how he had wanted to resume his account. "There's nothing. Really… It all happened so fast. Only a moment, and then it was over. He never even… He never…"

He squirmed, rubbed an ache from one side of his head, and brought the covers up still further. If only he could close his eyes, even if for just a moment…

"That's it," Bell's stern voice cut through the cloud in Julian's thoughts. The smaller man had turned to Commander Russell. "It's time for you to go."

"No," Bashir insisted, rousing himself as though struggling upwards from deep underground. And then, a little quieter - "No. It's… I'm all right. But I have to say this - please. Honestly, he barely said two words to me. I have no more idea than anyone as to what he could have wanted."

* * *

"I'll help you clean up," Julian offered in a quiet voice, but Corinna shook her head with a look of determination that was oddly reminiscent of his father.

"It's all well in hand."

"No, really. It's all right," he insisted. "I don't mind…"

"Well I do," scolded Corinna. "I can manage far better without anyone getting in the way, thank _you _very much." She held him down until he sank back, defeated.

Julian sighed, too softly for anyone save himself to hear. "Thank you."

Ten minutes later, he felt the touch of a much smaller body squirming against his own. Meg hauled herself up beside him, where she positioned herself in a tight ball across his chest. Smiling sleepily, Julian raised a hand to stroke her straight brown hair - and realised that he was arranging it to settle around her ears. He heard a series of muted sniffles.

"Meg," he whispered, and she lifted her face to look into his eyes. Her own sparkled brightly with tears spilling onto her cheeks. "Meg - it's all right."

"But…" She was pleading. "That man - I thought… I thought he would hurt you real bad."

"Oh, I'm much too tough for that." Julian extended the blanket until he had cocooned it around the young girl's shoulders, and continued to hold her close. "See? No-one got hurt, and everything turned out fine."

"But why was he so mean?"

"Sometimes people just are," was the response. "I don't know why. But the important thing is, it's all going to be all right."

_No promises, Julian_. But the doubts still whirling around his head were not the kind with which to burden a child.

An image came briefly to the fore of his memory: A deeply etched face, dark eyes flashing beneath a single overgrown brow, lips curling into a hate-filled sneer. His attempts to understand were increasingly tiring, every thought fuzzy and ill-defined. _But let's pretend, just for now. For Meg's sake. Pretend that you never saw the murderous intent in that stranger's eyes_.

"All okay now?" he whispered.

"Mm-hm…"

Meg shifted, barely mumbling her answer, and he looked down to see that her eyes had already closed. He wondered distantly what Corinna would think, to see that her daughter still slept with one thumb inserted firmly into her mouth.

His head jerked upward, and he'd been scarcely aware that it had dropped towards his chest. _Not here_, he scolded himself. _Not now - they would never approve_.

"Shh - it's all right," he muttered, sensing the touch of Meg's hair brush lightly against one cheek. His own eyes steadily closing, he pictured himself in another, far away part of the galaxy, with only stars visible through a slanted ovular window to replace the light of an amber sun.

Corinna's daughter may have mumbled something in response. But he was not sure that he'd even said any words for her to respond to. With another quiet sigh, he surrendered to the temptation of sleep.

* * *

_As transport shuttles went, this one was not in any way atypical. Information panels set at intervals along each internal wall claimed that it was forty two metres from bow to stern, with cabins arranged in an even row along either side. Two narrow, carpeted aisles came together at the aft section, ending at a rust-red doorway with its surface carved into a patchwork of geometric indentations._

_There was a small bar at the rear of the vessel, not unlike the dining cart of an old fashioned steam train. _Actually_… thought Bashir as he glanced around the narrow room. If it weren't for the occasional glimpse of Starfleet grey, or the knowledge that they were travelling at a steady Warp Five between the distant stars, the scene could just as easily have belonged to some early twentieth century mystery novel._

_Something from Agatha Christie, perhaps. Uneasy liaisons, secrets, intrigue, and a complex web of cause and effect. Julian looked around him without really seeing any of the people inside - and circled around the various tables to an empty place in the far corner._

"_I suppose the ones who designed this chunk of metal wanted all this to seem a little archaic." A voice came from beside him. "Sentimental, or pleasantly quaint."_

_Bashir glanced to his right, hoping to locate its source._

_The face of the stranger who greeted him was round at the edges, with shallow creases all the way down his cheeks. A narrow moustache of speckled grey poked forward slightly to accentuate a small overbite. Before saying anything else, the newcomer sat down, resting both hands together on the counter, and turned his attention back to Bashir. The lines around his eyes deepened, crinkling slightly at the corners._

_And now he peered at the ceiling and waved a hand aimlessly to indicate his surrounds. "Such peculiar décor, isn't it? I guess someone must have thought it would all look… charming. What do you think?"_

"_That someone was trying a little too hard."_

_Deep, chesty laughter floated above the chatter around them. "Daniel Bell," the stranger said, holding out one hand._

"_Julian Bashir." The contact between them was deliberately brief, and Bashir welcomed their return to silence, even though it was far from comfortable._

"_So." The moment was ended by his companion. "Where are you headed?"_

Is that one of the oldest clichés in the universe, as icebreakers go, or is it just the worst?

_Bashir turned to stare at the man next to him, as though he had just blandly commented on the sudden growth of an extra head upon his shoulders._

"_Earth," he said. It was the shuttle's only destination, after all, and there would be many days before its next launch. But he guessed that his companion was most likely expecting more. He threw back the remainder of his drink. "I'm supposed to be visiting family in Scotland."_

…Supposed to be? _he almost questioned himself aloud, but could not stop the feeling that it was better to speak as little as courtesy would allow._

"_Ah." Bell smiled, nodding as though the answer was a confirmation rather than news. "I'm going that way myself. Who knows? We may even see each other around there at some point…"_

"_It's a big place," Bashir insisted, somewhat incredulous._

_The older man shrugged. "Even so."_

_With the close of the lunchtime peak, all background chatter had faded to a continuous mumble. Only the occasional raised voice emerged from the surrounding quiet. Julian paid no attention to any of these, instead focusing suddenly on the face of Daniel Bell. Those searching grey eyes still watched - as though engaged in some kind of initial study, gathering what data he could and storing the results for future reference._

"_Wait a minute." Eyes narrowed, Bashir rose to his feet and took a long step backwards. His head was shaking, and he sensed the uncontrollable tension rising in his voice. "You people - you never give up, do you?"_

"_I don't understand." Bell's face shaped itself into a picture of deliberate innocence._

"_Oh - I think you know _exactly _what I mean."_

_Julian was taller than his present companion, and could loom over him with relative ease. Heads turned at nearby tables, but the younger of the two men was far past caring for the good opinion of strangers. _Let them look, _he thought rebelliously, more than ready for the confrontation he knew would have to follow._

"_Whose idea was it?" he demanded of Bell. "Who sent you?"_

_The shorter man shook his head speechlessly, mouth open long before he spoke. "Nobody…"_

"_You expect me to believe you just happened to be passing through?" Bashir's voice rose to an angry shout, enough to make several onlookers wince. "Don't lie to me. I'm tired of people feeding me lies, saying it's all for my own good - even more when they think that I'm just going to swallow everything they say. So _tell _me…"_

"_Starfleet Medical…"_

_Julian tensed, eyes narrowed almost to slits, arms folded across his chest. "What about them?"_

"_There were those who… They've been… _worried_. That's all."_

_Fierce, cold anger rose inside Julian, tightening without warning until he failed to prevent a furious, twisting agony deep at the core of his stomach. All at once cold and burning with rage, he opened his mouth to speak, clenching both hands until he felt the pain of fingernails stab into his palms. _

Starfleet Medical - worried? After… what? All that time? _It was laughable. Might have even been funny, if it wasn't all so…_

To Hell with them!

_He'd been preparing himself to say just those words. But as he opened his mouth, Bashir's jaw clenched like a vice and he shot a hateful glare at Daniel Bell's pale, mute face. He sensed himself trembling, dimly, far beyond the whirlpool of thoughts in his head, and the flush of his pulse surging like a flood past the deeper part of his ears._

_But he knew as well as anything else, that however he felt at that moment, it would almost certainly go unexpressed. Nice, polite Julian Bashir just didn't say those kind of words, didn't go out of his way to make others uncomfortable. Didn't ever draw attention to what was _really _on his mind. _Garak would be pleased_, was his next ironic notion. Instead of speaking, he span around and stormed away through the same meticulously fashioned doors._

* * *

The cover was still warm about his shoulders, but he sensed drowsily - as though observing himself through a comfortably enshrouding fog - that the murmur of background noise had disappeared from nearby. He yawned, tensed every muscle until he felt his muscles awaken, and rubbed his eyes before finally forcing them to open.

He was still wrapped in the soft, blue-grey blanket, still resting in the same large armchair although his surroundings were as dark as midnight and the glow of the hearth had died to no more than a few tenacious embers. For a moment he was puzzled, and slightly alarmed. Had he really slept the day away? At some point, he assumed the others must have left him alone to rest. Probably dimmed the lights on the way out, and tiptoed away so as not to create a disturbance. The living room was quiet - empty - and even Meg was no longer at his side.

But perhaps it was not as abandoned as he'd first believed after all. Bashir sat up, frowning, contrasting the shaded outlines to what he recalled of the living room's interior. It was hard to identify with any certainty, but he sensed almost immediately that something was different. Too different. Rising to his feet, the blanket wrapped around his back for more than mere warmth, he peered into the darkness.

"Welcome back," said a hard, level voice, its source momentarily concealed although the sound of it was instantly recognisable. "So good of you to join us again."


	4. 4

In less time than he could find to prevent it, a name had forced its way through Bashir's mouth - a whisper that was barely a voice, spoken from the depths of his throat. "Sloan."

His view of the visitor was now clear, each detail of his face resolving itself far too easily as Julian's eyes adjusted to the poor illumination. Watching intensely, he tracked the man's progress as he rose from the chair in which he'd been seated, and crossed to the nearer end of the room. _Have to wake someone_, he thought. _He's dangerous_. But what would that accomplish, except to divert the intruder's attention to Corinna and her family?

"I remember you."

"Of course you do." Sloan shrugged again, turning to look over his shoulder. A corner of his lip twitched into a near imperceptible smile. "I would hate to think that I'd ever been so forgettable."

"How did you get in here?" demanded Julian.

His adversary dismissed the question with a wave of one hand. "I'll leave that to your imagination," he said. "By the time you do figure out the answer, I'll most likely be long gone anyway. But I know how you enjoy a challenge."

"Don't flatter yourself."

"_Do _I flatter myself?" But he continued without a pause, giving Julian no chance to respond. "In any case, it hardly matters. I for one did go to all this effort to argue over such minutiae."

"Why _are _you here, then? Was your accomplice or whoever that was less successful than you hoped he would be?"

"Yesterday morning is nothing to do with me."

"You're lying."

"On the contrary, Doctor. I'm only here to help."

"Oh, really?" There was no point in concealing the extent of his misgivings. "Then are you telling me it's simple co-incidence, that you always show up at the point when everything starts to go horribly wrong?"

"What leads you to that conclusion? I've only ever met you once before now."

"Twice," Bashir corrected him. "And why would _you _of all people be going out of your way for my sake?"

Again, the same controlled expression, which fell just short of true sincerity. "All right. I confess. The truth is, Julian. I've come to like you. You're an intriguing man, and deep down, in spite of your somewhat misguided hostility, I think that you are just as intrigued by me."

As he stepped closer, the cold blue of Sloan's eyes did not waver. "I'm not asking you to 'like' me in any sense of the word, and you don't have to say a thing to confirm what I'm about to tell you. But I do suggest that you listen, at least. Your life may depend on it."

Bashir shuddered. The suspicious frown on his face deepened still further. But he did not speak.

"Smart man," Sloan commented. "And now to the business at hand. I will not confirm or deny any of those things I've no doubt you suspect me of, so if I were you I'd save myself the trouble of asking. But what I _do _have at hand - which might interest you - is data gathered from several studies pertaining to the circumstances of our last encounter."

"Meaning what?"

Seeing that he finally had the complete attention of his younger companion, the pale-faced intruder nodded in quiet approval. "It has to do with the long term effects of certain artificial toxins. In normal circumstances, we had already made absolutely certain that these would have been minimal. It wasn't what they were designed for, after all. What our best scientists could _not _predict, unfortunately, was how different this reaction would be when combined with previously altered DNA."

Bashir was unable to prevent a shake of his head that was almost too slight to be felt - never mind seen. He remembered longing to escape from the immediate effects of the poisoned air, the constant churning in his stomach, the burning pain deep inside his lungs. The potential for long term consequences had never gone entirely unconsidered. He'd already been scanned so many times that he felt like a rat on a laboratory table, and secretly performed several additional scans on himself to make sure that nothing could possibly have been missed.

The smaller man's expression shifted a little, as if he had plucked the thought directly from Julian's mind.

"You may have already experienced some of the initial signs," he went on. "Loss of motor control, periodical weakness, hand tremors… And I assure you, none of this would have shown up in any test. In all our projections, it happens slowly - but it is inevitable. I'm afraid I don't have a workable time frame for you. But the bottom line is, by the time you are able to quantify the results, it will be too late. Your cells will have broken down at the sub-molecular level, and you will die."

A flush of warmth rose quickly to Julian's face. "Assuming that I believe a word you're saying," he said. "How is any of it supposed to help?"

"Did you forget the most fundamental lesson of diagnostic medicine?" Sloan challenged him. "The first step to any solution is to understand the problem. But I do know of one person with some degree of expertise on this subject, the same woman who first drew our attention to this issue. A geneticist by the name of Larkin - Hilary Larkin."

He paused. "Sound familiar?"

"Maybe."

_Larkin_… Bashir's prodigious memory ran through a catalogue of names and faces, but he already had a clear view of the image forming in his mind. Pale. Round cheeks, red like polished apples. Narrow but kindly dark blue eyes. _Larkin… Wasn't she_…?

Seeming to see his present company move to some level of realisation, Sloan nodded slowly. "She was a doctor," he confirmed. "Unfortunately, I couldn't possibly tell you where she is right now. But I believe you may have encountered her once before, during that trip you took to Adigeon Prime."

* * *

Corinna was still pale and half asleep when she greeted Julian on the following morning, but she had never been able to summon much of a voice before her first coffee of the day. She clasped her mug and watched him fold the blanket into an ever-tighter bundle. "Just leave it on the back of the chair," she said in answer to his questioning stare. But her eyes held a question of their own.

"Everything's fine." Julian smiled reassuringly before turning away from her dark, anxious eyes.

Images whirled around in his mind, as apparently substantial, but elusive as dust in a hurricane. He wondered if he ought to say more. But he could already picture her reaction, and especially how she would respond to reports of what Sloan had said before he'd disappeared from sight like the edges on a cloud of smoke.

_Not yet_, he thought. _You've given them more than enough to deal with already. Later, maybe. But not yet_.

The night had continued for five more hours at least, but Julian had not been able to sleep through any of them. Instead he'd replicated himself a cup of sweetened Tarkalean tea, and seated himself at the table, holding it in both hands and staring into the shadows until his drink had grown so tepid it was barely drinkable.

"What is it?" Corinna asked when she saw the still troubled look upon his face.

"Mm?" Julian looked up, startled, and blinked. "Oh. Er… Nothing. Nothing at all. Just thinking."

"That's understandable." Still with the same nervous smile, the woman rested a hand upon her cousin's shoulder. "There's a lot to think about, isn't there? Listen - I have to get Meg off to school. But how about we all have a hot breakfast first?"

"I'll help." Glad to find some distraction from his constantly cycling memories, Julian dropped his bundle on the back of the chair and started towards the farthest wall.

But Corinna moved to intercept him half way. "It's all right - I've got it."

"Don't you trust me any more to operate a replicator?" Her companion challenged her, with a steadier voice than he felt.

Corinna nodded, chuckling quietly to herself. "Very well, if you insist," she conceded. "I'll go wake that lazy family of mine, and you can take care of breakfast."

* * *

Seventy three minutes after the table had been cleared, Julian and Liam were seated at each other's side, where Corinna's husband was taking great delight in showing their guest a painted scale replica he'd constructed of Kirk's _Enterprise_. It was his most treasured project - something which had taken him over six months to build and then another week to paint in the detail he wanted.

Neither made any mention of the previous day's events, as though sensing each other's preference for silence and distraction. As Julian's gaze traced the model's perfect, white curves, he recalled the boyish thrill that he and Miles had shared, wandering more than a hundred years back through those wide and brightly lit corridors.

Both men watched Corinna enter through the front door. But before acknowledging either of them, she slumped into the nearest chair and rubbed a thumb and forefinger across the bridge of her nose.

"Are you feeling better?" she asked Julian.

"I'm fine," he responded, but echoed the gathering storm behind her eyes. "Are _you_?"

She nodded, looking tired.

Liam approached his wife, with an expression of quiet concern deeply etched across his brow. Corinna rested one cheek against his hands, as he massaged away some part of the morning's tension and bent to kiss her hair. "Mm," she murmured, closing her eyes for barely a moment. "That's nice."

But when she opened them again, her smile had not returned. Her face was anxious, gazing over to where their youngest daughter sat on the floor with a child's computer propped across both knees. Finally, Julian sensed a question emanating from behind his own quietly subtle frown.

"I spoke to the local gold-squad." Corinna's answer was soft and tight, and carried a trace of barely noticeable hesitation. She made contact with Julian's nut-hazel eyes, but even this faltered a little as she continued to reveal what she had learned.

"The man they have in custody - Commander Russell tells me he's been able to find an official record, and that he thinks there's some kind of involvement from one of those crazy factions that pops up every now and then. This one's just a minor splinter group - they call themselves the Purity Front - or Anti-gens. Which is the worst pun I've ever heard, if you ask me. But then… I don't know. But apparently it's got something to do with _protecting _our species from…"

She hesitated. But Julian was more than capable of giving voice to the words that hovered between them.

"…People like me."

"Those sanctimonious bastards," Liam hissed. Julian responded with nothing more than a soft, resigned sigh.

"Maybe. But I suppose it's something I'll just have to get used to from now on."

Liam's eyes were closer to steel grey than the major's striking shade of near-black. But they blazed with a brief but angry fire, which lent him an uncanny - although passing - resemblance to Kira Nerys. He paced across the same three steps, grinding his teeth and locking them together to keep a string of profanity from reaching his daughter's ears. Then he stopped, closed his eyes, and took several false starts before he finally managed to speak.

"I… Honest, man. I fail to see how you can be so calm about all this."

Julian lowered his gaze to where both hands were tightly clenched across his lap. "Trust me, I'm not."

As though disconnected from a faulty power source, Liam's head immediately ceased its barely voluntary shaking. He blinked, mouth still open - but with the anger and incredulity now all but drained from his face.

Corinna took the opening. "So what happens now?"

Julian noted quietly that his hands were still tensed into a pair of tight fists, muscles and tendons raised along the back of his arms. "I'm not sure." Rising to his feet, he stepped past his audience and made for the exit.

A silent addendum came to his thoughts. _But I know what I have to do_.

…_And where I have to go_. He rubbed the skin at the centre of his brow - in the area just above his nose. But if anything, the ache only worsened, and there was an extra pressure now - a hand coming to rest upon his shoulder. He looked to see Corinna's still querying frown - and realised that he had failed to conceal the unsteadiness of his hands.


	5. 5

"Julian--" Corinna spoke cautiously. "Is there something wrong?"

_There's always something wrong_, he thought - not without a generous helping of bitterness. But he pushed these feelings out of sight, before they had a chance to appear upon his face.

"What do you mean?"

Lifting both hands and deliberately simulating the tremor that she had seen in his, Julian's slender cousin stared into his eyes. "What's this all about?"

He looked down, avoiding her gaze, and wondering for a moment how much he ought to say. _Nothing_, he decided after a moment's hesitation. _Whatever this is, it's your problem to deal with. Not theirs_. He tucked both hands beneath his armpits as though hugging himself for warmth.

"Just nervous," he promised, forcing himself to return her level gaze. "That's all."

She did not appear convinced.

Julian ran his fingers through his hair. "I've been thinking, Corinna," he continued. "I think it's about time I got away from Earth."

"Why?"

"I… It's nothing much. It's just that I've imposed enough already, and…"

"If you think any of this was an imposition…"

But he continued with barely a pause. "…And besides, there's something I have to do."

He could tell from Corinna's narrow eyes, and lengthy, almost suspicious silence. She was longing to ask what that could possibly be. But instead, she stepped back with arms folded tightly across her chest. "Fine." There was no further delay in her reply, no moment of conflict or indecision. "Then I'm coming with you."

* * *

_Stepping through the exit - last in a long procession of travel-weary passengers - Julian paused to thank the crew members who stood at the door to watch him go. He scanned the gathered crowd as everyone waited expectantly on the ground. Somebody waved, still unmet it seemed, as he turned his attention away from the shuttle that had brought him to Earth. It was a tall, dark-haired woman, standing at the edge of the throng while a small and wide-eyed child clung fast to her other hand._

_Julian glanced uncertainly around him, endeavouring to discover if any of his fellow travellers were returning the woman's friendly wave. But instead, a firm hand slapped him on the shoulder. "That's her," Daniel Bell confirmed, smiling as he nodded to where she still waited, anticipating, on the ground. With a flush of irritation, Bashir glanced back at the shorter man, and scowled._

_But the doctor continued to hover at his side, even after they had both stepped away from the ramp and onto the ground of their home planet. _Terra Firma_, the ancients had called it. _Solid Earth_. But now that he had finally reached it's surface, whatever certainty the universe could provide felt so much less solid than he had ever imagined it would be._

_He approached the woman, who watched, her attention steady and unfaltering. "Corinna?"_

"_Julian." At his subtle answering nod, Corinna leapt forward and embraced him with such force that all the air was knocked from his lungs._

_He staggered backwards, and she laughed at the bewildered and oddly breathless stare that was suddenly fixed onto his face. "Tessa," she chided slightly, glancing down to where the child now clutched a handful of material from her mother's skirt. "Say hello to Uncle Julian."_

_The girl turned away and buried her face behind Corinna's knees._

_Julian's cousin laughed again, but this time the sound was quieter. And sweeter, like the song of a narrow, wandering stream. "She's shy," the young woman continued, still glancing down at her child. Tessa had concealed nearly every part of herself in the long fabric, save for a tangled mop of curly black hair. She bore a peculiar resemblance to a nervous Tribble._

"_I can tell," said Julian, his response a little reluctant, still as bewildered as before. He could hardly fault the youngster for being so unsure about the encounter._

_Corinna paused to look beyond her visitor, to where Doctor Bell watched them from just a few steps away. "We'll be fine from here, thank you, Doctor," she assured him - and Julian wondered if he hadn't caught a hint of playful taunting in her voice._

_The smaller man protested. "Corinna, I really think we should…"_

"Goodbye_, Dan."_

_The force of her stare seemed to have passed a ticklish, feathery cough to Bell, which proved remarkably difficult to cast away. "Well then," he muttered. "I'll just be going then. And…"_

_He nodded to himself, turning away. "Bye."_

_As she watched him go, Corinna hoisted Tessa up against one hip, and Julian noticed for the first time how her eyes twinkled like stars when she smiled._

"_I wouldn't worry so much about Dan Bell," she said, nodding towards the retreating doctor. "I know he can be a wee bit solicitous at times, but that's just his way. He's been like that ever since we were children. Although I'd imagine _that's _not so altogether uncommon among you medical types now, is it?"_

"_Perhaps not," Julian conceded as he followed his cousin and her daughter away from the meeting area._

"_Come on, then," she told him. "My eldest has been dying to meet you all morning, and she should be finished at school any minute now. And as soon as Liam gets home I'll replicate us a wonderful stew."_

_Julian was vaguely surprised when he heard his own stomach's anticipatory rumble._

* * *

The sparsely populated hall was infused with an air of constant anticipation, several rows of benches set like teeth across the floor, and with a continuous murmur of voices providing the greater part of the ambient noise. The ceiling was beyond human reach, like that of a Gothic cathedral, but flat as though a crushing weight was set to fall upon the heads of the people inside.

_Why_? demanded Julian as he sat at one of these tables, clenching and unclenching both hands into fists and glancing at the other nearby visitors, who were spread at random intervals throughout the room. He was struck by his own uncertainty, far from sure of what the remainder of his question ought to be.

_Why_…?

Why did he feel so terribly jumpy, with this powerful urge to leap from his seat and escape through the first available exit? Why was his chest so much tighter than it had been that morning, as though from a sudden drop in atmospheric pressure? Why - with all that had already come to pass - was he still feeling the effects of this never ending, painful agitation? Surely he ought to have acclimatised to that by now?

Why, why… _Why_?

He glanced at the door-less frame, the last thing to separate this indoor space from the open air outside, and watched as a tough, greyish-green fern leaf lightly tapped against the forcefield. Then he looked back, and rose to his feet when he saw another man enter through a door at the opposite end.

He'd been putting off this meeting for far too long. At least, according to Doctor Bell and the long procession of interested parties who had preceded him. All those people who had come Julian's way to examine, evaluate… _Counsel_. And now, at last, he had finally agreed to this reunion. It was as much to silence their persistent voices as it was to calm the doubts that still lingered in his mind.

"Hello, Father."

If he were to start at Corinna's antique home between the hills of Scotland, don the most impervious EV suit that anyone could ever invent, and tunnel all the way through the Earth until he reached the open air again, this could well be the place where he would emerge. Depending on the chosen angle, and a little deviation in the course he took. But even with this addition to his wandering thoughts, he could not help but wonder why anyone would expend any valuable energy in such an endeavour, even if it were entirely possible.

He had discovered long ago that the penal colony was surrounded by farmland - orchards for the most part, but with an occasional sheep farm or winery at intervals along its nigh abandoned roads. It had been that way for centuries, maintained by generations of farmers with little use for replicator technology or even for artificially altering their crops.

"How are you?" the older man asked, somewhat stiffly. There had never been many lines upon his face, but what was there had deepened considerably since the most recent time they'd met.

His son's reply was equally hesitant. "Not bad. Er… How about you? Have they been treating you well?"

A nod. "Quite well. Some of us have access to a small garden around the back of G Block. I'll show it to you some time. I try and get out there most days, and the warden himself has promised to put me in touch with some very important friends of his - experts in landscape design. They're all very interested."

_Prospects again_? thought Julian, but Father's deliberately idle account had ceased.

"You've lost weight," Richard Bashir commented. He was studying his son through dark, narrow eyes.

_Here we go_. "Actually…"

"And you're different, somehow. I can't quite put my finger on it, but… you've changed, haven't you?"

"Father, it's been a long time since we saw each other. A lot has happened since then."

"Which is exactly my point, Ju--" He shook his head, closing his eyes and briefly grinding his teeth against each other. "_Julian_. You've already been on Earth for… what? Two months? Three?"

_Two and a half_, thought Julian, but said nothing.

"…And we've seen nothing of you in all that time. You might have come to visit us once in a while."

_I'm here now, aren't I_?

Julian held back a groan. "I…" Rubbing the heated agitation from his face, he sighed. He was beginning to regret having come to this place at all, but sensed that he would have make his confession eventually. "Father, I'm leaving Earth."

The elder Bashir's expression was suddenly distant - hard. As though all his energy had been transferred to some kind of steady personal shield. "When?"

But it was not difficult to see the second, unasked question behind his father's dark eyes. _And why_?

"Tomorrow. I took an opportunity to see you today, because… It's just… There's something I have to do."

"There's always something you have to do," growled father. "Always some excuse to stay away. First it was 'I have to study.' Then it was all that business about _frontier _medicine. Then 'Everyone _needs _me at the station.' And suddenly I hear that you're in some kind of trouble, still so far away, and you never once thought to tell us anything about it? What's your excuse this time? Still too busy?"

"Father…"

He couldn't finish. Turning away from his father's demanding eyes, he glanced behind him to where a man and a woman leaned forward across a table to share a brief, affectionate kiss. The woman was clasping her lover's hands, and the man smiled warmly as he whispered something in her ear.

_So which one's the prisoner_? Julian wondered, and found with some distant surprise that he was asking the same question equally about his father and himself.

"Just promise me something," the older man's voice came from nearby, startling his son. "You'll pay your mother a visit before you go."

Julian nodded. "All right."

"Good." The answer was gruff, almost harsh. "I don't want to hear that you left without seeing her at least once. She's worried, Julian - and there isn't a day goes by when she doesn't tell me so."

* * *

"Are you sure you want to be doing this?"

Daniel Bell pursed his lips, pushing forward the close-cropped, salt-and-pepper moustache that had always rendered him vaguely reminiscent of an otter or a water rat. More like a character from one of those idyllic pastoral storybooks than a twenty-fourth century denizen of the galaxy.

But this was not the right time for expressions of amusement. Corinna nodded. "I would never have said so if I wasn't."

"It won't be easy," the doctor warned her. "There's naught I can do to prepare you for what to expect so close to the Front, and I doubt there's anyone who could tell you half of what's really going on out there. Even then…"

"He's family," Corinna interrupted, her voice hard enough to put an end to all further argument. She discovered then that she had stopped, hesitant to say more. Her younger cousin was holding something back, of that she was certain. She was no telepath, but she could sense that there was something else motivating him - something she was unlikely ever to know - that the upcoming journey was somehow essential.

Liam and the girls would be all right, and it was better for them to stay behind. But Corinna had seen the conviction in Julian's eyes, and suddenly knew just as surely that she could not let him leave the planet alone.

"So there's nothing I can do to stop you from seeing this through?" Bell asked.

"Short of stuffing me into one of those stasis tubes of yours and beaming me one-way to some remote Antarctic outpost? Nothing springs to mind." Corinna responded. Then she sighed, closing her eyes as she reacted to the challenge so clearly evident in her voice. "Honestly, it was good having him around. Not just for me. For Liam, and Meg and Tessa. But now he has to go, and I want to help. I'm going to help. I booked us a place on the shuttle _Ragnarok_, which is due to leave almost as soon as Julian gets back from New Zealand."

"Then I suppose all I have left to say is… Good luck."

Corinna turned to the man next to her, eyebrows raised in genuine astonishment. "Wow. I never expected you would be _that _easy to convince."

"Would you rather I put up more of a struggle?"

She laughed, and extended an arm to hug the round-bellied doctor across his shoulders. "You're a great friend, Dan. I'll see you in a few weeks."

"I'm holding you to that," said Bell.


	6. 6

"Mum…" said Tessa, lifting both skinny arms up for a cuddle. Corinna crouched to lift her, and held her against one hip with a pale, childish leg at either side of her waist. There was silence as mother kissed daughter on her smooth, rosy cheek.

"You're getting heavier every day," Corinna whispered as their foreheads touched. "_You'll _be the one lifting _me _before too long."

Wrapping a hand around the back of Meg's hair, she guided the older child in two steps closer. "I'll see you really soon, okay?" she told them. "Both of you. And make sure you're good for your father."

"Bye," chorused Meg and Tessa as their mother stepped away for the entrance. Corinna embraced her husband last of all, and Julian smiled as he shook Liam by the hand.

"Stay in touch," said the girls' short, pale father.

"Count on it," Julian assured him.

The shuttle _Ragnarok _departed from a landing pad just a few short kilometres from the outer edge of Edinburgh. Passengers who travelled together were afforded the option to share a basic cabin, with a wall dividing each small room to allow both some measure of individual privacy, and a combined space to relax beside a row of tinted windows and look out onto the cosmos as it passed.

"I know what your thinking," Corinna accused, linking her hands across both knees as sat at the edge of a pale blue sofa - and leaned forward, waiting.

Julian emerged from the left hand bedroom, which was barely larger than the bed that occupied it. Perfect. He wasn't sure what had attracted him about that particular direction, except perhaps that he was reminded of the layout of his old quarters on the station. There was not a lot to do - merely to set his bag down upon that same thin bed.

No longer with any luggage across his shoulders, he paused by the door. "What am I thinking?"

"To answer the question you're so eager to ask, no there wasn't any way you could have talked me out of this. It's been forever since I last left Earth. This gives Liam some quality time with the girls, and besides, someone has to stick around to keep you out of trouble."

"Oh, really? And that would be you, would it?"

Corinna said nothing, but the teasing grin had returned to her lips.

"Well," Julian responded. "You never know. _I _might be the one to keep _you _out of trouble."

"That's possible too," agreed Corinna with an apparently indifferent shrug.

Her cousin laughed, and strode towards a smaller room set into the back of their cabin, and separated from the main area by a solid partition. "Time for a sonic shower."

* * *

"_Don't be scared." His father's voice spoke from some of his most distant memories. "I'll be just down the hall, all right? Go on - go with the lady now, Jules."_

_The same lady's hair hung in a dark and tangled cloud around her face, and she smiled down at the openly staring, fearful six year old who stood in front of her. Jules Bashir fidgeted, instinctively backing away. But when he glanced mutely at his father's eyes, he saw only encouragement - which would quickly turn to impatience if he hesitated too long. He knew his father too well to suspect otherwise._

_It had long been a prevailing belief among the hospital staff that - initially at least - a Human child would be far more at ease if first met by a Human doctor. That was why this woman had been the one to greet him upon his arrival, and not one of the mottled, exotic Adigeons or any member of some other even more different species._

Father thinks she's all right, _the boy told himself_. So she must be. _But it didn't work. His initial fascination had been pushed aside, replaced by a stomach clenching fear - and Jules noticed only later that he'd wrapped his own fingers even more tightly around his father's hand._

"_Go with the lady, Jules." Reaching down with his opposite hand, Father prised the boy's fingers away, and guided him by the shoulders towards Doctor Larkin, who smiled as she led him away along the corridor._

* * *

"_Nothing_," cursed Bashir, and thumped the computer panel so hard that his chair surged back like a startled animal. Whatever record there had ever been of a Doctor Hilary Larkin, it had either been purged a long time ago - or she had never even existed. And his memory of her, even now from such a distance, was far to decisive to allow for the latter.

"_There is a time for impatience, Mister Bashir." A voice from long ago, of a gruff old professor whose hair was Arctic-white, interrupted on his crown by a series of bony skull ridges. He recalled how even then, the man's mouth had puckered in mild disapproval at the protestations of his anxious young student._

_What had it been that time? Most likely that lengthy experiment of his - the one that had refused to keep to his assigned timeframe, and was rapidly leading him to despair. Cultures of Aldaran moss, if he remembered correctly. He'd been trying to produce them in the lab, and when he was ready, he had intended to immerse himself in a study of the symbiotic bacteria within._

_It had all been going far too slowly. He'd never had some people's aptitude for cultivating even simple plants. "But it's not working," he'd shouted, mostly from fear of what should happen if the tiny moss should never materialise. On that day, he recalled, he'd considered this experiment the equal of his life. "What do I do?"_

"_Nothing," was the old man's grumbling response. He always grumbled, even when he was delivering a lecture or telling a joke. "These are living organisms, Julian, and nature does not always conform to our pre-set deadlines. Sometimes all you can do is sit back and wait, and that's really all you ought to do."_

If only the snowy haired professor had been at his side on that day as well. Because after all, there was a deadline here - just as pressing as an important dissertation. But as a student at medical school, he'd at least had some idea of when his deadlines were approaching.

"I need more _time_," he said aloud. It was easier by far to sort through his frustration that way than it was to keep the flood of negative thoughts held captive inside his own imagined prison.

"Time for what?" asked a voice from behind him, directly after the sigh of an opening door.

"I just came to see if you were hungry," Corinna explained as Julian turned towards her. She nodded towards the monitor. "You've been stuck at that screen for over an hour. What is that?"

"Personal." Julian hastily blanked the screen.

He stood up, pacing, wringing his hands and frowning so hard that his head ached. _She's not in the database. Why_? Last night when he'd gone to bed, he'd been so cold, in spite of the environmental controls on board.

He tensed, startled, and surprised that even his artificially enhanced senses and reflexes had not allowed him to anticipate Corinna's approach. She stood in front of him, the skin of her high forehead gathered into a frown, and was silent as a half-finished hologram as her wide brown eyes explored her cousin's face.

"I was looking for someone," he told her. "Following up on a lead. That's all."

She nodded, understanding, but also folded her arms. "This doesn't have anything to do with what happened the other day, by the river?" she asked. "Does it?"

"In a way…" Julian confessed. "But not in the way that you might have thought it would. Everything's so… complicated."

He shook his head. "Oh - it doesn't matter."

"That's not how it seemed when you were beating up the consoles."

It _was _a challenge. He could hear it in her voice. For a moment, he hesitated, rapidly processing all possible ways to evade all need to answer. But the words he took a moment to rehearse were not the ones that finally came from his mouth. "Corinna--" he said, and stopped. But then, after a shuddering breath, he turned back to look once more into her eyes. "I… er… I have to… That is, there's something I have to tell you."

* * *

"_What_?"

Corinna stared, mouth open, face twisted into an expression of disbelief and horror, and repeated the same question as though caught on a perpetual loop.

"What?"

"Corinna - please. Just give me a moment to explain…"

"Someone in my _house_? With Meg and Tessa asleep not two rooms away? Why in _Hell _didn't you…?"

"Because I've dealt with this Sloan before, Corinna. Trust me. Asleep, you weren't about to get into any danger. But you almost certainly would have been if any one of you had woken up and gotten in his way."

His cousin's eyes were hard, and steel-tight muscles shifted in her jaw.

"I really do wish you had said something earlier."

"Would you have even believed me?" So many others had not. They had mouthed the usual conciliations in the face of his insistence, but there was little or no evidence for their own senses to verify that the man they never saw had ever existed.

"You're the one who stands there demanding trust," insisted Corinna. "I believe you now, and I would have believed you then. If you had only…"

"Then I'm sorry - I guess I made a mistake."

"You think?"

"Can't you understand, I'm _trying _to apologise?" Julian was certain he would regret every word even in the moment after he spoke. But wasn't that what his life had always been about? Secrets, deception, frustrations that had to be kept from the world. A universe of people who just never seemed to understand. _Mustn't let them. Mustn't tell_.

"I wish you'd at least get it into your head," he snapped. "Some of us get tired of being watched all the time."

His hands were trembling even worse than before as he escaped into the corridor and pressed his back against the wall. He took several deep breaths, savouring the rush of replicated air and fighting against the sudden heat beneath his face. A pair of women smiled as they passed, hesitating as though startled by his sudden appearance. Bashir took just slightly longer to gather his wits enough to flash them a near subliminal smile in return.

The ship was almost entirely peopled with civilian traders and lower level diplomats, all on their way to the edge of Federation space, to take advantage of whatever opportunities were to be found at the front. Looking at the faces around him, Julian saw almost immediately that very few of these had any experience of actual battles. They would be in for a rude shock, he thought, once they reached their destination.

It was to be a longer journey than the one from Bajor to Earth, not least because the _Ragnarok _was far slower, and struggled to travel much above warp three. But this was only set for the initial leg of their journey - past Terra Nova, Ursa Major, Trill…

Before anything else, he'd told Corinna from the very beginning, there was one stop he especially had to make. Even if he was no longer welcome in Starfleet, he could at least return to that one place in the galaxy where someone would allow him the resources to answer all the questions he still had. And no matter how many Admirals at their distant office tables had decided that he was no longer welcome, it was still the closest he had to a home.

Deep Space Nine.

_But you were so absolutely awful to Corinna_, his conscience was already screaming at him. _All she's ever done is to try and help you_.

He doubted that she would be ready to accept his apology, even if he were ready to go back and offer it to her. It was usually enough - on the surface at least - to turn deliberately irritable and tell himself that he didn't need anyone's help. But the lie left a taste at the back of his mouth, as bitter as vomit and twice as stubborn. And now what was he supposed to do? Keep stalking the corridors until he finally worked up the courage to speak to his cousin again?

_You've fought battles, cured diseases, graduated second in your class, and now you can't find the wherewithal to make one little apology_?

Not yet, he decided. There was still time. It could wait.

* * *

Toran Kwan was a twenty one year old freelance reporter, straight out of Journalism school and eager to make a name for himself by shadowing the first Starship he could find that would allow him passage to the Front. He had attached himself to Julian and Corinna from the very first day, and on that day, it was Toran and not Corinna who was first to seek the other man's company.

Oddly enough, Bashir found that he did not mind. _Reminds me of myself when I was young_, had been his first thought, although the discovery made him feel peculiarly old and jaded. He sat at one of the common areas, watching as distant suns passed by like comets, when he heard the reporter's eager voice, politely asking for a chance to take the empty space opposite.

Kwan watched with round, dark eyes, made even wider by the constant display of excitement that radiated outwards from behind them. After several days' travel, Bashir was starting to doubt that it was possible to find him without his cheeks pushed back into that same broad, gleaming smile.

His hair was so close to pure black that only the most direct light could ever reveal it as brown. His cheeks were round like his eyes, and his face was darkened by a deep, caramel tan that even further obscured the speckled bands trailing subtly down either side. These were already fainter than those that marked the bodies of full-blooded Trills, each one broken in places like a half complete jigsaw.

Another passing rumour had initially drawn him to Bashir. "Is it true what people say?" he enthused, eyes sparkling like those of an overactive kitten. "That you used to live on DS9? Is it true you've met Jake Sisko?"

Julian nodded, deliberately clenching his jaw, and having to hold back an urge to laugh. But he supposed there would be no harm in a smile.

"I've read everything of his," confessed Kwan. "That was what made me want to go to space. Well - not exactly. I always knew that I wanted to write and I always knew that I wanted to travel… But when I read those articles he wrote the first thing I thought was, 'That's it. That's what I want to do with my life.' I mean, imagine what it must be like - to grow up in such an exciting place… Much more exciting than Earth, I bet."

"I'm sure your parents would have had something to say about that," Julian commented.

Corinna had been first to inquire about the young reporter's family back on Earth. He'd already mentioned a mother, father, and younger brother. But now Kwan shrugged. "They actually weren't that bad. My mother did say that if I wanted to go to space, I'd be better off just visiting my grandparents on Trill." His voice went up another octave. "'There's _plenty _to write about there. And it's safer. And _closer_. You'd have _far _less distance to travel.' She even offered to arrange it for me. But Dad just wished me luck and told me to stay in touch. I think he still remembers how _his _mother reacted when he told her that he was leaving Luna…"

He chuckled as though from a personal memory, or a story told to a curious young child. Bashir opened his mouth to ask something else, but felt his expression suddenly change when he saw Corinna pass them by. She flashed a brief smile their way, but there was anxiety behind her eyes. And Julian discovered that his own were just as anxious.

Toran looked behind him, and back to the young man sitting opposite. "If you don't mind me asking," he ventured. "What was all that about?"

"A minor difference of opinion, that's all." But then Bashir leaned forward and set his face into a deliberately meaningful frown. "And that's _not _to be repeated. To anyone."

"I wouldn't dream…"

Kwan's reply was interrupted before he could finish, by the scream of an onboard siren.


	7. 7

There was an immediate procedure for all passengers to follow in response to the shrill ascending summons of an on-board siren. The emotionless voice of the _Ragnarok_'s computer droned repeatedly in their ears, reminding them of the safest route and instructing everyone to move without hesitation - as quickly and calmly as they could manage - while a narrow band of crimson light shifted along the bottom of every wall, and again at eye level.

"_Attention all passengers. This is an emergency alert. Please report to the nearest safety station, as currently indicated by on board display_…"

"What do we do?" Cold apprehension had come suddenly to Kwan's dark eyes.

Bashir patted his arm, with hope that injecting some degree of confidence into his own movements would at least go some way to reassuring the nervous young man. His own eyes were just as wide, and he could feel their pupils enlarge as the pressure of his heartbeat pushed a rush of blood towards his muscles. "Exactly as the computer says."

* * *

Whichever desk-bound admiral had dreamed up the emergency protocols for shuttles and starships had clearly given no thought to the sanity of those on board. Centuries of space travel ought to have afforded those same decision makers enough time to re-examine what effect they would have on men and women whose nerves were already charged to the limit of endurance.

It was not the first time such a notion had occurred to him. The constant whine was already shrill enough to hurt his ears - and with an even more painful undertone that he was close to certain only he was able to hear. Light was scarce inside their sanctuary, dimmed to the minimum possible setting in which people could still move around in relative safety in an attempt to highlight the dull scarlet glow of a red alert.

"Julian?" The voice at his side was a breathless gasp. He turned, and saw Corinna, hugging her arms as she glanced around her, dark eyes wide and afraid.

The most important step in their emergency protocols was to gather in a common area at the very centre of the _Ragnarok _- supposedly the safest place on board. It went against every instinct of Bashir's, but he remembered quickly that the shuttle was not a Starfleet ship. Still, he relaxed noticeably at the sight of his cousin, taking her hands in his. The brief smile that came to his face was quickly replaced with a twinge of uncertainty.

"Go," he told Toran Kwan, nodding down the corridor. This was his chance, and Julian had to take it. Slightly hesitant, he spoke softly, and allowed a little subdued regret to creep into his expression. But his voice, although quiet, was deliberately clear. "I had no business saying what I said to you before. I… I'm sorry."

The young woman shook her head. "It's all fine."

But Julian was persistent. "No. It's not fine. I have to say this, please. You were right. I was frustrated, and angry, but it was entirely unfair to have taken it all out on you. And I should never have held back something like that. I didn't want to burden you any more, but it was a bad move to keep this from you. You have the children to consider. It's just that I get scared, sometimes."

"What, scared? A big strapping lad like you?"

His laughter was more like an unhappy cough, or possibly just an expulsion of air. He looked down towards his feet, grateful to find that no-one else was watching. "Believe it or not, I do. And I get uncertain, and I make mistakes. I never meant to…"

"And keeping things from people is a difficult habit to break," she finished for him.

For a moment, Julian watched her, his throat so tight that it blocked all the words he might ever have thought of to say. He glanced back up, at the touch of a hand on his upper arm. Seeing her opening, Corinna continued.

"Whatever it is you're holding back. Believe me, I _can _handle it."

Julian nodded, sighing. "But not here." He lowered his voice still more until it was barely above a whisper. "After this is over, all right?"

With not enough chairs to seat every passenger in the central room, over half the shuttle's compliment were huddled in scattered corners, leaning against walls, tables, and solid, rectangular sofas. Those who had not found some place better were standing, or seated at uneven intervals on the floor. Every face was miserable, apprehensive. At one end of the room, a child was starting to cry.

The sirens had lessened in volume. But it was still dark, with flashes of dull red, and there was a constant, uneasy mumble in the air. Voices called out to locate family, friends and colleagues. Questions turned to anxious speculation, and finally to a string of wild reports on even the tiniest clues that every person on board had seen. Bashir listened to their rapid-fire rumours, as sightings no more substantial than a light in a window quickly turned to an entire battalion of Jem'Hadar vessels poised for an attack.

"We're trapped," one of these voices was saying. "That's what I heard. They've taken out our engines, got us in locked in some sort of tractor beam, or whatever else it is they have on their ships."

"Who?" asked another.

"Dominion pirates."

A third speaker raised his eyebrows sceptically.

"Pirates?"

"Sounds plausible enough to me," another man claimed. "Not all piracy is about buried treasure and waving cutlasses about."

"Then what do they want?"

"In the middle of a war? What do you think?"

Somebody else spoke. "They want _us_."

"It would certainly seem that way," whispered Bashir. Beside him, Corinna's muscles had turned as hard as cold steel.

His companion settled by the wall and brought her knees up to her chest, paler and quieter than he recalled her ever being. Instinctively, he brought his arm up, to provide a gentle pressure across her shoulder.

"Oh, God!" someone gasped. This new, barely audible voice came from a young woman with ash-blonde hair, whose eyes sparkled with a film of panicked tears. She was shuddering. Her shoulders heaved with every rapid, heavy sob. "Oh, God - there's no air."

_Too fast_, thought Julian. Keeping to a low crouch, he crossed the floor towards her.

"Look at me," he hissed, urgently and clasped both of her hands. "It's all right. Understand? Nothing's going to happen."

"We're losing life support," she insisted again, but now her attention was directed entirely at him. "I can't… I can't… _breathe_."

"Try." Bashir's response was deliberately slow, a long, tense whisper. "Deep breaths. Watch me. Good - just like that. You see? Nothing's happened to the life support. We're all right."

The fair-haired woman swallowed hard, struggling to regain control. But she nodded.

"What's your name?" he asked, whispering - but in a voice meant to draw her attention.

"J--" she stammered. "Jocelyn. Davies." Her chest still heaved, but at least now the muscles of her neck no longer bulged and spasmed as through caught in a cold, dry vacuum. Her eyes were an almost flawless shade of pale blue-green, wide with terror and framed by long, dark lashes. Tears created deep wells at their base.

Julian's mouth formed the echo of a smile. "A pleasure to meet you, Jocelyn."

"Ladies and gentlemen." A new voice cut through the rising cacophony. It was loud and deep, a voice Bashir had learnt ever since his Academy days to associate with power, and command. At the same time, he easily recognised the distinctive figure of the _Ragnarok_'s second in command.

This man was not particularly large, and his height and breadth were similar to that of Julian's father. But there was something in his bearing. Always confident. And the smooth, stiffened fabric of his uniform tunic added still more emphasis to his broad, strong chest. "Ladies and gentlemen, may I have your attention _please_."

It was the kind of shout to stop all others. With a silence to assault the ears - just as readily as the on-board alarms - every person in the room now looked the way of the first mate, and the pair of white-clad stewards who flanked him. Julian saw hope on the passengers' faces, but even this occasionally bordered on desperation. This, he understood. Frightened people needed some thread of a promise to cling to, even if it really was no more than a thread.

Multiple pairs of eyes were glinting in the dark, like a crowd of mice taking shelter from a cat. Uncomforted by the placatory whispers of his mother, the weeping boy had begun to wail.

Now that he had the attention of the majority of his audience, the barrel-chested man continued to speak. But there was an undercurrent of distress behind his voice - well-covered, but not perfectly so - and as obvious in its own way as it showed in the array of pale, wide-eyed faces around him.

"Ladies and gentlemen, I regret to inform you that due to unforeseen circumstances, we may be experiencing some momentary delays. I would ask you all to remain here, remain calm, and on behalf of the crew, I thank you for your patience. We will endeavour to get underway as soon as we possibly can."

"Then I take it this is not the part where one of you tells us precisely what is going _on _out there?" Somebody rose to a standing position at the far end of the room - a pale, round-bellied man with dark hair that had thinned to wisps at the top of his scalp.

"Shut _up_," Julian hissed, his tone sharp enough to cut through titanium. He noticed at the edge of his vision that Kwan surreptitiously turned his way.

But his voice barely travelled beyond his own teeth, and the latest speaker had never been likely to heed what he did not hear. He crossed the floor. "I've been a regular customer on board your shuttles for the better part of twenty years, and I've never come across any instance where a mere technical delay would warrant a red alert."

"Please, Mister Pembleton," said the shuttle's first mate, struggling not to cringe from the breath of this middle aged civilian. "I really must ask you to…"

"Not until I get a proper answer," that same Mr Pembleton was close to shouting. It was one of the stewards, who had shifted to stand just behind him, who responded.

"Sir, if you would just…"

"_Don't touch me_." The man snatched his hand away. Several onlookers flinched at the sharp tone of his voice.

Jocelyn was rocking from side to side, keening softly with tears trailing in fat rivers down her cheeks. She looked up, and her glistening eyes locked with Bashir's. "Please," she whispered. "Not me. They _knew _I couldn't do this work. They knew how I felt about going through all… that… _space_. There was Tricia, Yosef, Annabelle, any number of others they could have sent. So why me? Please, oh, God - not me…" The rest of what she might have said was lost behind a series of loud, fractured cries.

"And you can shut your mouth as well." The angry diplomat was still not silenced. He loomed over the same blonde woman, who cringed away from him, and screamed. "Stop that bloody noise before I stop it for you."

"What's wrong with you?" Bashir glowered at the other man. "Can't you see, she's scared enough already?"

Covering the woman's smaller hands in his own, he pressed them together and stared, deliberately unblinking, into her eyes. _We all handle our fears in different ways_, he reminded himself. _Some push it aside. Some bury it as deep as they possibly can. Some get angry. And others panic_.

"Easy," he told her. "Everything's going to be all right. No-one's about to hurt you, understand?"

She nodded rapidly, gasping, gulping in air and turning frightened eyes to where others had gathered around her. Bashir sensed the crew members also at his side. Their presence was a reminder, that his promises meant little beyond a mere shade of reassurance. If there really was no danger, the first mate would not have been so reluctant to impart so much of whatever else he knew.

_But, no. You said it yourself - this woman's frightened enough. Whatever you're thinking, she mustn't see._

"Please," she choked. "Please… _don't let us die today_."

Julian opened his mouth, but stopped short before he could allow himself to make her any more empty promises.

"This is stupid," protested the same plump bureaucrat who had been shouting loudly enough to hurt his ears. "You think she's the only one who's scared? We're _all _scared, but that's no excuse to go around acting like a…"

"Will you be _quiet_?" Spinning around on the balls of his feet, Bashir glowered at the pompous Mr Pembleton. But he broke off their contact and dropped to his hands and knees, gasping from a numbingly dizzy ache behind his eyes, and doing his best to hide his sudden shivers. The moment passed, but he could feel the silence around him. Pembleton's eyes were glinting in the semi darkness, staring, frowning his way. And so - he quickly saw - were Corinna's.

Pausing to steady himself, Julian turned to assure her not to worry. But in less than a second, a sudden jolt through the foundations of the ship knocked him entirely off balance and sent him tumbling into the wall.

The lights went dark, and Jocelyn Davies was not the only one who screamed.


	8. 8

Julian's pulse thundered past his ears long after the lights had sputtered back to life, easily half as rapidly again as he supposed it ought to do. For a moment, his lips and skin tingled dizzily, suddenly off balance as though having sat in a corner far too long. He grunted softly, hauling himself up to rest against the nearest available wall. His ears ached from the constant wailing of that same small child. But for now at least, the majority of the terrified, discordant voices around him seemed to have been pacified with time, briefly lowering themselves to an unsettled mumble.

He sat upright, stifling a cough. "Is anyone hurt?"

They were tense, frightened, all visibly paler even in the sputtering light. But nobody appeared to have been injured any worse than the initial reddish tone of a half developed bruise. Then whoever decided on these emergency procedures must have been exactly right, he imagined with some distant surprise. Perhaps this really _was _the safest place on board.

His eyes locked with Corinna's. She was hugging one arm to her chest, teeth clenched in an expression of moderate pain. But she took on a far more stoic expression upon seeing the querying concern on Julian's face. _It's fine_, she told him, each word slightly exaggerated as they silently formed upon her lips.

One by one, the first officer and his crew were already struggling to their feet. "Ladies and gentlemen…" Deep cracks showed in the leader's deliberate façade of self-control. His voice was unsteady, like a character in a poorly mended holosuite drama. "Ladies and gentlemen, I must please ask that you remain calm, while we attempt to find out as much as we can. _Please_. We will…"

The second impact to abuse the shuttle's outer shell was less unexpected than the first had been. But its force was enough to stagger the man against a nearby table.

"Are you still going to tell us that everything's fine?" demanded a single voice above all the others. Pembleton. "Tell us the _truth _for once."

If there was to be a reply, it was interrupted by the appearance of yet another steward - a far younger man than all of his colleagues - who half stumbled through the door, righted himself at just the right moment, and traced a jagged path towards them. He leaned in close, speaking in a low, tense whisper until his words finally elicited a response. Bashir frowned to see both staff members cast none too subtle glances his way. But whatever the youth had told his flustered first mate was lost in an amorphous stew of noise.

They noticed that he was returning their open stares. One of the older stewards called to him. "Doctor Bashir? Julian Bashir?"

If people still had to make the same repeated mistake, he'd long since lost the energy to correct them. "Yes?"

"Would you come with me? Please?"

His cousin's voice cut through Julian's bewildered thoughts. "Hang on - _just one minute_." Recovering from her earlier collision with the wall, Corinna shouted a challenge at the cluster of uniformed men. "What do you want with…?"

"Please?"

The scarecrow-thin steward indicated the exit, watching as Bashir rose unsteadily to his feet.

"Is it true what people say?" he asked. "You used to be in Starfleet? You have combat experience?"

"Some." Bashir nodded slightly. "Why?"

"A very good question," Pembleton had stormed up from behind. "_Why_?"

"Please." The steward spoke a little louder. _Always so polite_… But there was a definite edge to his voice. They were in far more trouble than he was letting on. "Would everybody remain calm - we'll have this all sorted out momentarily…"

"That's what you've been saying since the beginning, and we haven't been told a single thing of any use. What do you expect us to do, trip happily to our fates like cattle to the slaughter?"

Nodding to his younger companion, the steward stepped forward to calm their angry passenger. The youngest of them stepped towards Bashir. "Come with me. Please."

"I'll be back before you know it." With this assurance to his anxious cousin, Julian followed the steward, ears ringing from the parting yells of the enraged Mr Pembleton.

"Wait! You're not going anywhere without…"

_Everyone reacts in different ways_, he reminded himself. Still a little hurried, he placed a hand on the young steward's arm. The youth stopped, and nodded in answer to the expression in Bashir's eyes, waiting as he turned back to where the pale and thin-haired diplomat waited and watched.

"It will be all right." He spoke softly, his gaze locking tightly with Pembleton's. But even this subdued half-whisper was firm enough to silence the other man's bluster like a rapidly deflating balloon. The low level bureaucrat's mouth opened, and closed - no words emerging into the air. He was blinking tears away, and Julian smiled as he patted him twice upon the arm.

"Let's go," he said to the steward who had summoned him.

The door closed, and the balding man's tirade was silenced behind them.

* * *

The _Ragnarok_'s cockpit was unusually small for a shuttle of its size, and barely wide enough at its narrowest point for two large men to stand at each other's side. The young, and now white-faced steward walked with tension in his muscles, as though expecting to lose his balance with every step. But there had been no more destructive energy surges along the hull as he guided his taller passenger along a corridor leading to the bow.

The first to greet them was a middle aged pilot, so thin-faced that she bore closer resemblance to a collection of bones and tendons than to the short, plump captain who turned to face their visitor. "Rashid Kumar," the captain introduced himself. A shallow line extended from each of his eyes to his chin to divide both slightly drooping cheeks. His greenish brown eyes reflected a very different flavour of anxiety to the one that had shown in those of his passengers.

Kumar was not entirely unfamiliar - although in the course of their journey, few people had engaged the captain in more than a brief mutual greeting. His usual countenance was one of easy cordiality, at least when not confronted by extraordinary pressure. But still he carried enough of that indefinable yet palpable dignity that made those around him happy to accept his commands.

Both exchanged a hurried handshake, and Julian's mind worked hard to diagnose the source of this man's tight expression. He paused at the entrance of the cockpit, his eyes forming the question he could not quite find the will to ask aloud.

Captain Kumar turned to his co-pilot, who nodded without hesitation and touched a control, to bring up a large display across the length of the front wall. "Recognise that?" he asked.

Bashir's throat was chokingly tight, enough for a harsh ache to form at its base. The apparition before them hovered in clear view, quiet and ominous, never moving - a ship, with its underside marked by a series of radiating purple lines. "Then, the rumours were true." It was all he could think of to say.

"Rumours?" asked the captain. "What have people been saying?"

Bashir frowned at him. "Did you bring me all the way here just to report the prevailing gossip?"

"No, of course not. It makes perfect sense that people would speculate at a time like this." But Kumar dismissed their most recent comments without a thought. He nodded towards the looming figure of the Dominion warship. "None of my men have any experience in this kind of situation. Which is why I asked if they knew of anyone on board who has."

_It's a civilian transport - nothing more than that_, Bashir realised. _He's not used to having to defend himself. So that's what they need me for_. _Advice_?

"They've stopped firing on us for now," the captain went on. "But we were never meant to have encountered any enemy ships - not on this route."

"I wouldn't count on _any _route being entirely immune from the Dominion," whispered Bashir. He ducked slightly and moved forward to stand between them, still staring up at the image floating just above the level of his eyes.

"Well," said the captain. "It seems that you're right. The question is, is there any way to escape from here before they blast us into atoms?"

But then another thought occurred to Bashir. "I don't think they want to destroy us," he said.

Spinning around in her seat, the Ragnarok's pilot cast him a look of puzzlement, infused with just a hint of confusion. "What makes you say that?"

"There's enough firepower on one of those ships to tear us all apart," said Bashir. "So why aren't they?"

The crew exchanged glances, but none offered any theories. So Julian continued.

"If I were to guess, I'd say that they want us alive."

"Why?" asked the pilot.

Bashir's response crept hesitantly into the air, reluctant to follow a slow outward breath through his lips. "That's it. I'm out of guesses."

"Maybe they can't destroy us," said Captain Kumar. "It's possible…"

Bashir shook his head. "I've seen just three Jem'Hadar attack cruisers completely obliterate a Galaxy class starship." His rebuttal was quick, fuelled by memories of the _Odyssey_. The purple glow of the other ship's underbelly was steady, unyielding in his vision. "It's not that they can't destroy us. That's not what they're trying to do."

_Which means that they must be aiming for something else entirely. After all, why go to all this effort, unless_…?

Another bone jarring impact, and a shout from the emaciated shuttle pilot was enough to finish the thought for him. "Captain," the woman said suddenly, her face as white as sour milk. "They've taken out our shields."

Kumar opened his mouth to respond, when there was a sound like a thousand tiny chimes, all accompanied by spinning, twisting lights. Bashir felt his body break apart in the disintegrating rays of a site-to-site transport.

But these were orange, he noted uneasily, as ribbons of illumination floated like slender worms around the beam. Whatever was claiming them now was not the icy white shimmer of a Federation transporter.

Not from the _Ragnarok_.

* * *

When the spinning lights finally resolved into solidity, the surrounding colours and illumination were noticeably different to the soft grey-blue interior of the shuttle. It was dark, with eerie shades of green and reddish purple dominating what little could be seen of the nearest walls.

In less time than there was between one heartbeat and the next, Bashir saw that there were people all around him, every one as anxious and bewildered as those beside them. Glancing to one side, he gasped at the scaly, thick-jawed, black-clad soldier he suddenly found glaring back at him. Close enough for him to make out the hair-thin, branching capillaries at their edges, these were the cold, steel-blue eyes of a Jem'Hadar guard.

The ripple of conversation that had been a near-constant element of their earlier assembly was now entirely absent - replaced by a palpable cloud of silence that hung, like a prelude to a storm, in the air above their heads. Apart from the occasional moss-coloured soldier standing calm as a rock on the outskirts of the scene, the control centre of the Dominion ship was crowded almost beyond capacity, with every frightened civilian who had ever been on board the captured shuttle.

The boy who had been crying so loudly back on the _Ragnarok _was silent in his mothers arms, gazing at every face around him, with freakishly round, attentive eyes. The unnatural colours and artificial light reflected from those tears that had spilled onto his cheeks, as well as from the layer of clear mucus spread across his upper lip. Seeing that Julian had noticed him, the boy whimpered quietly, and dove for the security of his mother's larger sleeves.

Turning away, sensing that the child would still not welcome the attention, Bashir was quick to locate a trio of familiar faces at the farthest edge of the crowd. Kwan was first to notice his approach, but Corinna was less than a second behind. One of her arms still rested across Jocelyn Davies' shoulders, but the smaller of the two women was as quiet as the weeping boy had been, her straight blonde hair draped low over what little it might have revealed of her face.

"What's going on?" Corinna whispered, watching intently as her cousin approached her from the other side. "What happened? There was a light, and…"

"We're on the Dominion ship." Julian's reply was even more hushed, enough that only those close by him would have heard.

It was Kwan who reacted. The half-Trill reporter stared, mouth open in clear incredulity - enough to show his even, white teeth. "What? But we can't be. So what do we do now?"

"You wanted to be on the frontlines," Julian reminded him, scarcely having to force a smile. "Just think about what to put in that first hand account of yours."

From somewhere just beyond a dark, protruding bulkhead in front of them - closer to what must have been the aft section of the bridge - came the whispered breath of an opening door. A mountainous Jem'Hadar was first to come through the entrance. Two of his cohorts looked subtly towards him, although the gathering of prisoners appeared to have a far more obvious reaction to offer - many shuffling instinctively closer to each other until they were in as tight a huddle as they could be. The newcomer was followed by a much smaller man - pale as though he'd never seen the light. His hair was black, curling up and back into what could have been the beginning of a shallow topknot, and he gazed around him with eyes of pure, cold blue.

"Deyos," whispered Julian. Reflexively, he turned away to hide his face, and shifted to the very back of the huddled crowd.

Corinna turned to him. "Who?"

But Julian's voice failed before he was able to provide her with an answer. And what would he tell her? That this man had been the master of a camp at which he himself had been a prisoner? That as much as any other, this ghostly face was one of the multitude that remained to haunt his dreams? That emotionless and yet distantly sadistic stare, the level voice with which he would casually pass judgement on prisoners and guards alike. Quietly, secretly, his stomach churned to see it again.

_Why him_?

Ignoring the crowd of people who had so recently beamed aboard his ship, the Vorta Deyos moved deliberately forward to be closer to one of his soldiers. The Jem'Hadar stood with both hands resting against the sides of a narrow console. He did not look directly at his Vorta, but stiffened just a fraction more than Bashir would have thought was physically possible. It was all that was needed to indicate that he was attentive and waiting.

There was no need to wait for very long. "Third," said Deyos. "Do you have the signal?"

"I do." The Third's voice was unusually deep, even for a Jem'Hadar.

"Good." Finally, the small, pale man stepped away, and turned to address the fearful crowd.

"Before all else--" he began. "I wish to offer my _sincerest _apologies for the rather cramped and narrow conditions in which we currently appear to be, but I am afraid that it was unavoidable. It has been a long time since we have entertained so many guests such as yourselves, but if you would only be patient for a little while longer, we should have you on your way in just a moment."

He turned to one bulky Jem'Hadar and lowered his voice until it was barely a breath above silence. "Remember your orders."

The soldier responded with a barely perceptible nod.

"Very good," said the Vorta, and turned back to the _Ragnarok_'s passengers. "Ladies and gentlemen, thank you for your patience. And on behalf of every one of us, I wish you all a safe and _pleasant _journey to Deep Space Nine."

Lights span and sparkled all around them, whirling, dancing, and carrying away the crowd of travellers, back to the relative haven of the shuttle _Ragnarok_. When the space around them was finally dim, the lights set to nothing, and the interior dark enough to be a strain on their eyes, only one of the shuttle's passengers remained.

_Breathe!_

And yet, the reminder offered very little to a man fighting against a sudden, powerful ache all around his throat. Bashir stood - half crouched - ready to spring away but at the same time with the painful knowledge that there was nowhere he could go, not until the Vorta decided to allow it. With a deep breath, he straightened again, and clenched his hands to stop them from shaking. But he knew that it was too late, that the shock of finding himself alone had already been revealed. And it was exactly the same as he had experienced the first time he'd looked into those unfeeling sapphire eyes. He cast a desperate glance towards the door.

"Not yet, Doctor." Deyos' level voice was enough to bring him up short even had the vicious weapons of the Jem'Hadar not been pointing his way. "First, we talk."


	9. Part Two: BREATH

**Thicker Than Water**

* * *

**Part Two**

**BREATH**

* * *

_There's nothing like a really good wedding to distract from people's troubles_.

Smiling wryly to himself, Captain Benjamin Sisko continued along the familiar dark corridors, absently noting how his shadow slowly changed its angle, as each grid of artificial light passed over his head.

_Nothing at all, if only for a moment_.

And it _had _been a good wedding, hadn't it? Even now, in spite of a head still fuzzy with blood wine, he could still picture the radiance of Dax in her wedding gown of bright crimson, and with that regal crown set to contrast perfectly with her gleaming dark hair.

_She was beautiful_, he thought, now smiling a little drowsily as he keyed in the door code to access his personal quarters. _No. Not beautiful - glorious. Worf's a lucky man_.

At that moment, Captain Benjamin Sisko was a tired, albeit - however briefly - a contented man. But tired was scarcely an adequate word to describe the constant, shallow ache that burned beneath his neck and shoulders. _Exhausted_, perhaps?

_Better_, he answered his own quiet speculation. But still sorely lacking in intensity.

He smiled again as he crossed the floor, surprised at how much he missed the comfort of his own bed, imagining the other officers staggering just as sleepily into their respective quarters, and anticipating how pale and ruffled they would be with the approach of the following morning's shift.

With a heavy sigh, he dropped onto the bed and closed his eyes. Four days had passed since he'd last had a decent night's sleep. There were many more duty hours tomorrow, and no doubt the war would soon return to the fore, but for now his plan was to postpone everything that could take him away from a night of comfortable oblivion. Already the blood wine was causing his thoughts to drift, as difficult to catch as smoke and vapour. He was letting go of his control. And, much to his satisfaction, he did not care.

"_Ops to Sisko_."

The captain moaned quietly, reluctant to force his way to full awareness. But then he rubbed the more powerful numbing effect of alcohol from his face, and grumbled to the air. "Go ahead."

"_I'm receiving a coded transmission from Starfleet Intelligence_." The voice from Ops was soft and taut.

Sisko frowned. "Starfleet Intelligence…? What do they want?"

"_I don't know, Sir. It's_…"

"Coded. So you said." Pushing through the obstacle of his own aching muscles, accompanied now by a steadily throbbing head, Sisko grimaced as he hauled himself into a sitting position and gripped the mattress as though afraid that he would fall. There _was _some small measure of relief to be gained from the pressure of one hand as it rubbed against the skin of his face, but still he struggled to keep the potent irritation from his response. The man was only doing his job, after all.

"Very well, Ensign. I'll take it in my quarters."

His computer screen lit up with immediate efficiency, brightly gleaming text shifting across the monitor's surface like fireflies on the march. _So where's the message_, Sisko wondered, even though he was still a little groggy.

He clicked his fingers, in part for the impetus this motion provided. Quietly, he scolded himself for his own short-sightedness. _It's waiting for my access code_. Blinking away the ache from behind his eyes, he nodded in answer to some unspoken impression, and obliged.

Five minutes later, Captain Benjamin Sisko found himself very much awake.

* * *

The bulky Klingon Tactical Officer was first to join the captain at the lower section of the station's Operations Centre. A row of chairs was set around a dark bench, which had served on more than one occasion as an impromptu conference table. Worf's already top-heavy brow was pushed even lower than was usual, tightly moulded into a hard, determined scowl. He was joined shortly afterwards by his pale-faced new wife, who approached from behind him, still a little hassled, and cast a level glare at Captain Sisko.

"You didn't have to come all this way," Sisko told them both. "Not on your wedding night."

"'All senior staff report to Ops,'" Jadzia quoted her captain, her voice still hoarse from too much wine. She focused her red-rimmed eyes directly his way. "Those were your words, weren't they? If there _had _been any exceptions, no-one told me."

Sisko conceded her point. But his thoughts had already shifted beyond the initial greetings and playful confrontation, too sharply focused on the disturbing news he'd been suddenly obliged to deliver. But there was little news from Starfleet Intelligence that had not disturbed him in recent days, he reminded himself - and wondered why he should still be surprised to be thinking this way. Dax's jaw was equally set, her mock glare replaced by that rigid, statuesque quality that Sisko always admired.

Other members of his senior staff were not much further delayed. The captain was pleased to see how quickly they emerged from the turbolift, as Worf and Dax took their places by his side. One by one, their faces transformed to mirror Sisko's expression of anxious concern. He took a moment to look around, noting that every one bore a sharp-edged, attentive stare. These were his officers as soldiers - alert and battle-ready, with scant evidence that the revelry of the wedding had left any lasting effects. All of them were set to face whatever came.

There was nothing to be gained from any further delay. Certain that he had their attention, Sisko's narrative began. Five minutes ago, a passing starship had picked up a distress call from a civilian vessel carrying around fifty passengers from Earth to the Bajoran sector. A shuttle first intending to stop aboard Deep Space Nine. None of this would have warranted any more than the fleeting attention of Starfleet. Certainly it would not have aroused enough of their interest to bother the captain of one of the most strategic positions in the Quadrant - if it weren't for the Dominion warship inexplicably sighted many millions of kilometres from their territory.

There had always been risks, the captain knew, even before the final chance of peace with the Dominion had come apart like shattered ice. The level of civilian traffic in their sector had diminished considerably in the build-up to war, but some of the more hardy transport vessels were still willing to chance their regular journey. Sisko automatically thought about Kassidy Yates, the woman he'd come to love, who was still away on one of her supply runs. There was nothing he could do to hold back his rising pain of worry - so he didn't try. If this incident was indicative of a wider problem, he fretted, what would that mean for Kassidy?

"Unfortunately, the vessel has lost all but her most basic communications, so there's been no way for anyone to contact her crew directly. But the USS _Darwin_ is already en route to their current location, and Captain Kerouac has promised that she will relay to us as much as she can ascertain before her ship is due to dock. Our orders are to find any available information about the _Ragnarok_, her passengers, and if possible about this incident itself. Anything that might shed some light on the Dominion's intent. I don't care how insignificant it is - whatever you discover, I want to know."

"When is the _Darwin_ due to arrive?" It was Dax who immediately asked.

"Ten minutes until it reaches the _Ragnarok_," Sisko informed her. "And then another hour to DS9, with possibly an extra fifteen minutes or so if it has to tow the transport itself." He surveyed the small group before him. "I don't think I need to tell you, the Dominion does not change its tactics without reason. If this is a symptom of something bigger, it's important that we know why. Dismissed."

_Ragnarok_… What was it about that name that was so damned familiar?

The officers dispersed quietly and efficiently to their various assignments, and Sisko found that his eyes had locked with those of Chief Petty Officer Miles O'Brien. The fleecy-haired Irishman was frowning, looking even more troubled than Sisko felt. Their contact lasted barely a second before he noticed O'Brien purse his lips, scowling quietly to himself, and the engineer finally turned away.

* * *

Minutes after returning to his office, Sisko paused to lift an off-white leather sphere from its place atop his desk. He turned it around in one hand, taking some comfort from the smooth curvature of the stitches along its seam - and glanced briefly at the reflection of his own hand as he replaced the baseball and redirected his gaze across the gleaming black surface of the desk.

"But the Dominion still went quite some way out of their own territory," he insisted. "Why? To capture a few low key civilians and then _return _them? There has to be something we haven't considered."

"They would not have done so unless it provided them with a tactical advantage," said Worf.

The captain nodded. "True." He spoke as much to himself as to the barrel-chested Klingon. Worf waited, recognising that he would have to pay close attention in case there were further orders. "We'll allow them onto the station. I want to minimise unnecessary delays - these people have been through enough already. But tell Doctor Hayes that he's to perform full blood screenings on everyone to come off that vessel as soon as it docks."

"Sir."

It had taken a full five minutes before Worf finally had a report to give, and even after he'd finished, Sisko felt that he'd provided more questions than answers. Worf frowned as though sensing that there was more to his captain's pensive expression than he was willing to reveal.

Sisko eyes narrowed thoughtfully as he stroked the line of his beard with a thumb and forefinger. The Klingon commander's acknowledgement had carried traces of a query. "It's nothing, Mister Worf. But this is a puzzle, and I can't shake the feeling that we're missing a vital piece."

The door opened to make way for a third man to enter the office. "I may be able to provide that missing piece for you, Captain."

When he chose to show his emotions, the expression on Odo's half-formed face was often deliberately obvious, a picture painted in broad, bold strokes. He had an unmistakeable smile when happy, and drew his mouth into a thin, tight line whenever he was not. It was an affectation, Sisko knew, but a remarkably effective one - allowing for a measure of control that most humanoids could scarcely dream of attaining, and sometimes even made the Constable appear a little ominous.

The Chief of Security was not smiling now.

* * *

"Remember me, Doctor?" asked the Vorta's subdued and steady voice. He stepped forward, pressing both hands against the small of his back like some ponderous Academy professor. "Oh. I forgot. You're not a doctor, are you? At least, not any more."

Bashir watched, silent and defiant. Exactly as he'd had to be when last he'd seen this small, pale man.

Deyos' blue eyes narrowed, continuing to stare without blinking. "You _haven't _changed much, have you? That's how I know you're still curious, and doubtless you are more surprised at this reunion than I."

He nodded to himself and paced the same four repeated steps, focusing all the while on the tall, rebellious Human in front of him. _Like a predator_, Julian thought. _Dissecting me with his eyes. Trying to find the best moment to strike_.

But that same cool voice still had not stopped. "The Founders were not pleased to have discovered that any of their prisoners had escaped. Of course they blamed much of this on my previous incarnation. I myself was more than a little surprised to have been activated again so soon after being executed. No doubt some part of you will find some measure of poetic justice, to know that there is no longer any camp on that particular asteroid outpost."

Somehow, Bashir did not feel pleased. "The prisoners?"

His captor responded with nothing more than a quietly sculpted smile.

_Everyone handles fear in different ways_…

And at that moment, Julian Bashir's was to focus on the solidity of the deck plates, to find whatever was the inner source of this anxiety - and channel the heightened chemical responses and newly sharpened focus into a stubborn, muted challenge.

"Enabran Tain always thought that you were a little stupidly bold." Deyos watched with some interest. "Or so I hear. I must confess, I had my doubts. But judging from what I see of you now, he wasn't wrong. I'd say you were certainly worth the extra effort."

"Are you saying that you came all this way just to get to _me_?"

"Why, Doctor." The Vorta rocked back onto his heels, with both hands clasped together behind him, and studied his prisoner with distant incredulity. "I would have thought you'd be flattered."

"Firstly, I stopped being a doctor months ago. You already reminded me, so I can't believe that you didn't know. And second, you'll forgive me of course if I _don__'__t_ elect to tell you about just how… flattered I am."

"As you wish." There was a chill in Deyos' voice, somewhat reminiscent of a shrug - that did not show in his shoulders. "All I require from you is information."

"About what? The _Defiant_? Deep Space Nine? Whatever it is, you're certainly not going to hear it from…"

"_Please_." At this, Deyos' ice-blue eyes filled with disdain. A very different man - cold and dangerous - was revealed with the lapse in his meticulously constructed veneer. "Even if our allies had not _built _your station, it was under our control for over three whole months. And you know as well as I do that we aren't exactly strangers to that ship of yours, either."

"Well if that's the case," Bashir demanded of him. "Then what else could you possibly want to know?"

"Oh, I could list many possibilities where your inside knowledge and talent for strategic projection could be _very_ useful to us."

"I'm not interested in being useful to you."

"Whether or not you are interested is irrelevant." Again, the dangerous cold blue stare, replaced so smoothly by the carefully fashioned mask of a diplomat. "Aren't you even a _little_ curious? Just a little?"

After a pause, Deyos stepped forward once more, moving confidently until there was barely a hand's breadth separating the two men. When he spoke, it was with a certainty that was impossible to ignore. Just as if he'd travelled through time and witnessed the only possible future.

"You are going to tell me about Sisko."

"Sisko?" It was so far removed from what he'd been expecting that Bashir's voice came out as no less than a high, incredulous squawk. He stopped, head shaking, and stepped back to stare at the stony array of Dominion soldiers. _But of course_, he thought. _They aren't just standing around because they've got nowhere else to stand, are they_?

"Captain Sisko? Do you expect me to believe that you don't _already _have an intelligence file as long as my arm? What could I possibly tell you that you don't already know?"

"Intelligence is all a matter of perspective," the Vorta insisted. "You have served with him. You have the experience."

"I don't know what Captain Sisko will do. In case you haven't noticed, he isn't my commanding officer any more."

"But you know him, don't you?" the Vorta persisted. "You have the ability to deduce his most likely action."

"Deduction is not the same as knowing," Bashir pointed out, hoping uselessly that the rebuttal could at least convince his audience. "And besides, even if I _did _have the information you were after, why would I ever…?"

He stopped, mouth open, backing still further from the faces all around him. "No." The single word emerged as a slow whisper, forced upwards through increasing tension in his throat.

They watched. Cold, unmoving. Like the eerie monuments of an abandoned grave yard. With a sigh, Deyos moved away, and crossed his hands atop a smooth, dark console. "I _had _been hoping it would not come to that." He nodded to one of the waiting Jem'Hadar, who stepped forward, weapon at the ready.

The soldier levelled his rifle at Bashir's head. "Move," was all that he would say.


	10. 02

Two men stood by a viewport at the outer edge of the wardroom, both anxiously silent, one staring through the unbroken, transparent forcefield that served as a window to the outer vacuum beyond. A soft light settled from above, revealing the true depth of the creases beneath his eyes and those still framing the corners of his lips.

The pale-skinned admiral was first to break the illusion of stasis. Silent and controlled, he unclenched all five fingers of the hand behind his back, clenched them again, rocked back onto his heels, and sighed deeply. "I'm sorry, Ben."

The other man stood no more than a single step away, and kept a steady eye on his companion.

With a shake of his head, Admiral Ross shifted his gaze away from the speckled view at the other side of the thick, metal wall. "Starfleet Command cannot agree with your assessment, nor to your proposal."

"May I ask why, Sir?"

The admiral was silent.

"You think this is a vendetta on my part? That I'm putting my personal feelings above the interests of the Federation? It isn't like that at all, Admiral. This could well be a matter of internal security."

"Nice try, Benjamin. But Starfleet Command doesn't see it that way. To endorse your request would mean occupying our most vital resource in a dangerous and possibly fruitless search for just one man."

"And how do you see it?"

There was an uncomfortable pause, and Sisko wondered if he'd really caught the faint grimace that briefly appeared on the face of the admiral. Finally, Ross spoke. "I agree with them."

Now it was Sisko who stepped forward to gaze out of the window. His skin was smoother than was usual for a man his age, his face not bearing the same marked creases as that of his commanding officer. But still his anxiety showed. "Sad," he remarked.

Ross did not ask what he meant, but the captain continued to elaborate regardless. He sensed from the weight on the admiral's face that he must have already known. But words were more than mere carriers of information. They were a release, a way to solidify the thoughts behind the pain stabbing into his temples. "It's a sad day, when the lives of our people become so unimportant. We're abandoning a good man, Admiral."

"I know that," said Ross. "But there are a great many things that we might call 'sad', these days."

Sisko nodded in response. The admiral was right, of course, and he could not have gotten as far as he had up the chain of command by only ever telling others what they were eager to hear. But the knowledge did not make him any more willing to accept this reminder. "No action," he muttered to the stars. "Take no action."

He looked back, and saw the admiral still watching him with wary concern. "Don't worry, Sir. I understand."

Which meant that he only had one remaining task. The unsavoury taste returned to his mouth like overcooked stew. Someone still had to relay Starfleet's orders to the rest of his senior staff.

* * *

"And you think the Dominion might have targeted the _Ragnarok _specifically?"

The core personnel of DS9 gathered soon after Admiral Ross had left for his command base. Almost the instant that he finished his meeting with the admiral, Sisko had resolved to sort through the rumours he knew would be circulating among the officers by now, especially with the _Darwin _at one of the docking ports, and a number of her passengers already prepared to disembark.

The senior staff responded far more swiftly to their captain's second summons than they had to his first, and he was soon surrounded by a line of worried faces, every one of them desperate for news. As they spoke, their words were framed by awkward silences, so brief that they might well have been missed by a less than attentive passer by.

Sisko looked to the right of him, to the ruddy faced doctor sitting three places from the head of the elongated and brightly lit table. Nathan Hayes was a far more naturally reserved man than Sisko had originally come to suspect, and unlikely to argue any point unless he felt too strongly to be easily persuaded otherwise.

Outwardly, even in battle, he often appeared detached, analytical… But, as the captain himself had noted, he did share one important quality with his younger predecessor. With few, if any exceptions, Starfleet medical officers thought of themselves as doctors first, soldiers second. Nathan would yield to his orders if it proved to be necessary, but was unlikely to agree with any decision to abandon a man in trouble. Captain Sisko was having enough trouble compelling himself to agree. He paused before responding to Hayes' query.

"I do."

Clenching both hands in front of him, Sisko looked down at the steady white glow of the conference table, and continued. "Two starships and a freighter reported sighting of a Dominion vessel which failed to engage either one. I believe the _Jericho _managed to chase it as far as the Chintoka system but they did note that it appeared to be more interested in escaping than fighting - unusual enough in itself for the Jem'Hadar. Projections based on its known course seemed to put the ship en route to Cardassia."

"_Cardassia_." Casting her hands in the air, Kira half turned away from all their other faces. "I should have known."

"Which begs another question," the doctor persevered, scratching at the back of his thinning, copper-red hair. "How did they know who would be on board?"

Sisko stopped, frowning, and saw that over half of the other faces around him now bore their own storm-driven expressions. He realised with surprise that, however unconsciously, he'd been wondering exactly the same thing. But before Hayes had found the words to give it substance, the question had failed to reach the surface of his thoughts.

It was Odo who filled in the lengthy silence. "I have formulated several theories already, Doctor, every one of which I am currently investigating. I am certain that I will have an answer before long, in _spite _of the continued lack of information. Captain, I believe there is still a chance to intercept the vessel in question. If you would allow me to contact…"

"No."

Captain Sisko's voice was quiet, barely louder than the occasional sleepless rumble of stones shifting deep beneath the surface of Bajor. All eyes were suddenly directed his way.

The captain drew a deep breath inward, wincing slightly as though the refusal had brought him physical pain. _Make it quick_, he thought. _No anticipation, minimal discomfort_.

"I received orders this morning from Starfleet Command. Their view is that we should stay exactly where we are. Do nothing."

"Nothing?" Another voice rose in disbelief. Chief O'Brien leaned forward as though to correct his own hearing. "You can't be serious."

"I can and I am," insisted Sisko. He glared at his Chief of Operations, all the more fiercely for the knowledge that he shared this reluctance to accept Starfleet's directive. But, orders were orders, and those Ross had passed to him had been too clear to allow for any other interpretation. "Look, people. I understand how you feel. This isn't making me any happier than it's making you. But whether we like it or not, this is wartime, and Starfleet Command can no longer give us the latitude that they might once have done. If Admiral Ross tells me they cannot spare the _Defiant_, then I have no choice but to believe him. So, I'm afraid there won't be any rescue missions. Not this time."

* * *

The major supposed that it was unusual for her, to be the last one out of the wardroom. Directly following the Cardassians' departure from Bajor, in what she occasionally thought of as the early days, she would have been first through the door - always rushing, never slowing down, impatient to be at her destination even before she had found the time to take a first step.

She had scarcely slowed over the years, but liked to think that she'd learnt some measure of self-control. And on that day, she paused and glanced back to find the face of Captain Sisko. The man's feelings were not clearly shown in the shape of his face, but they were no less easy to find as he stood by the table and watched the line of officers file sombrely into the corridor. Catching his eye, Kira nodded, once - and the anxious tension in her captain's face seemed to loosen. If only by a little.

The others were already separating, walking away in different directions as they forced their feet to carry them to their day's assignments. The atmosphere was grave, weighty, and none of her colleagues seemed willing to break the silence.

Kira looked to either side of her. The thoroughfare was even more poorly lit than the wardroom had been, but she could not have mistaken that stocky figure at the far end - especially not the tight, sandy-brown curls of his hair. Briefly quickening her pace until she was half jogging along the carpeted passage, she caught up with O'Brien and fell into step beside him.

"Chief."

"Major," he half growled. The slender Bajoran pretended to ignore the hostile shade of his voice.

"Join me."

"Why?" O'Brien stopped - although now with a frown more of suspicion than anger.

"Because I feel like a raktajino." Kira grabbed the engineer by the arm and began to lead him away, matching her force to correspond to his resistance. "And I feel like company."

* * *

The Replimat was less than half occupied that morning, but there were another three hours at least before the lunchtime crowds were due to arrive. Kira flashed O'Brien a brief, tight smile. By the time they reached one of the outer tables, she no longer had her hand around the Chief's forearm. He opened his mouth to protest, but he knew this woman, a lot better than he currently cared to. She had lived in his home, borne his child… There were times when the force of her will was even more difficult to escape than his wife's.

The major selected an empty place close to the border between the Replimat and the Promenade. Grunting from the base of his throat, O'Brien dropped into another nearby chair and resolved to keep his arms folded stubbornly in front of him. He turned his head to one side, hoping to avoid Nerys' penetrating gaze.

"Thanks," he grumbled as she approached him again, this time with a hot drink in either hand. Kira positioned herself at the opposite side of the table, leaning slightly back as she waited for the Chief to speak. O'Brien's frown turned quickly to an open scowl, his lips pursed into a thin, small line. There was something infuriating, about the steady gaze of those ebony eyes, in her silent, watchful smile, that drew confessions from Miles like iron to a magnet.

"I don't understand," he said at last. He still had not looked directly her way. And had no intention to, he insisted in secret.

Kira sighed, nodding, tapping one finger against the rim of her mug. "I doubt very much that the captain likes these orders, any more than we do." She paused. "But he understands them."

"Sisko's never been such a stickler for protocol before," O'Brien complained. "Have you forgotten what happened when those Romulans captured Odo and Garak? He had no problems disobeying orders _then_. And I could name at least a dozen other examples when…"

"I haven't forgotten," Kira assured him. Her voice was uncharacteristically soft, but successful in undercutting the rest of his tirade - until even O'Brien was no longer sure of what else he'd been about to say. "But there wasn't a war back then. We're not likely to get much notice, if the _Defiant _is suddenly needed on the Front. The captain knows that, and so do you."

"Fine," growled O'Brien. He glowered, feeling a rush of sudden heat to his face. Kira's mahogany-dark eyes continue to search his expression, as though for something she did not want to miss. He sensed his scowl transforming far too easily to an open glare. "_Fine_!"

_That's it, then_, he thought. _Do nothing. Just go about your business, O'Brien_.

After a token effort to finish his coffee - more for Kira's sake than from any real desire to feel the heat of it settle in his stomach - he sprang from the thin blue chair and stormed away in the direction from which they had come.

Miles kept his head low and dodged the scant crowd that peppered the carpeted walkway. He could sense Kira's unwavering stare as she tracked his progress along the Promenade. The certainty left a tingle of misplaced energy all the way across his back - she had to have been staring at him. And no doubt she would continue to stare for as long as the Chief was still in sight.

_Those bastards shacked up with the Cardies, dammit. Everyone knows what _they _do to prisoners_. _Nerys knows_. He slowed to a near stop, but refused to turn around and let her see his face. _And so do I_.

He had ridden the _Enterprise _all the way to the galaxy's centre and back again. And his service on the _Rutledge _had seen her crew escape from several Cardassian warships at once. But no amount of speed would allow him to outrun the angry heat that burned in the skin of his ears.

Work. That was the answer. Get the upper pylons back to peak proficiency, and focus his endeavours on a problem which could at least be solved. _Cardies_, he reminded himself. _And now the Dominion as well. _God only knew what could happen if those bloodthirsty monsters had really captured his friend. _Re_captured - O'Brien amended the storm of thoughts that had plagued him all the way from the wardroom. And even before, he realised. Ever since the first elusive touches of rumour had started to creep around the station.

There were moments when he still felt the pain of Cardassian nails upon his shoulders, echoing the sensations of their grabbing hands as they had torn his clothes away and attached him, naked, to the awkwardly inclined chair. Metal had been cold against his flesh, as powerful lights stabbed all the way to the backs of his eyes. He recalled the chill on his skin, goose pimples forming even in the sultry heat of Cardassia Prime, and the uneasy fear that had risen within him, even more for the level, emotionless voices of his captors.

The intense glow of the pylon circuits was many times harder to focus upon than O'Brien had hoped it would be. His hand closed tightly around the slender piece of machinery he had fished out of his box of tools, until he was certain that he'd felt the corners dig painfully into his palm. Pausing so briefly that no observer would even notice that he had stopped, he glanced at the darkened imprints it had left upon his skin, and forced his grip to loosen upon its handle. He would need a steady hand if he wanted to make any progress that day.

_Hang on_… He sat back, realising suddenly that he'd forgotten to adjust the power flow regulators before continuing on to what would normally have been the second step. It was an EJ-7 interlock he needed, not a decoupler. Still muttering near-inaudible curses, he rubbed away yet another flush of agitation, and dropped the wrong implement to lie abandoned beside his open toolbox.

Hunched like a man of twice his age, O'Brien sat back and bowed his head, drawing back his lips like an angry dog, until his jaw was so tight that he imagined he would have to use one of his own tools to pry his teeth apart.

_And you call yourself an engineer_?

"I always did enjoy visiting this part of the station." A voice spoke from behind him - loud, although not enough to be a shout - and infused with a dose of deliberate levity. "A most pleasant experience, to find time away from the crowds. Very… _diverting_. Wouldn't you agree?"


	11. 03

O'Brien turned to frown behind him, to where the a slight protrusion in the corridor walls created the illusion of segmented alcoves. And with this action, the speaker finally stepped into his view.

"Garak." The Chief Engineer's scowl deepened. "I'm kind of busy right now."

The enigmatic Cardassian exile stepped a little closer. He wore a stiff, dark green tunic with straight-edged bands of lighter fabric forming a symmetrical, geometric shape across the front. The outfit afforded him a congenial and vaguely patriarchal air, something to match the image of simplicity he'd always liked to maintain. But how much of that image was real, and how much affectation, O'Brien doubted even the tailor himself could have known for certain any more.

His expression as opaque as ever, Garak peered over O'Brien's right hand shoulder. "Yes - so I see." He paused. "Have you considered redirecting some of your excess energy through the secondary out-take valve?"

"As a matter of fact--" O'Brien smiled through his teeth at the watching Cardassian. "I _have_. What makes you so interested?"

"Oh, I do enjoy a bit of occasional tinkering." The reply was off-hand, dismissive, and almost certainly designed to arouse O'Brien's curiosity as much as to avoid giving any satisfactory answers. "It's a hobby."

"I'll keep that in mind," the engineer muttered under his breath.

Garak chuckled. "I'm sure you will."

"I don't have time for this." O'Brien's expression was darker than a storm cloud over Ferenginar. He turned back to focus on the pylon circuits.

A flash of random energy burst forth from the panel, sparks arching and falling more than a metre beyond the Chief's shoulders. He swore, still cursing as his grip slackened on the glowing implement he'd used to prod entirely the wrong open portal. Still with the image burned at the back of his eyes, he sat back and positioned a finger between his teeth until the resulting pain subsided.

"You've been working far too hard, Chief O'Brien," scolded Garak, who had dodged smoothly out of the way of the sudden neon discharge. "You really ought to take more care of yourself. Indulge in an occasional break - or perhaps even a raktajino or two…"

"What is _with _everybody today?" O'Brien complained, glaring openly at the Cardassian behind him. "I don't need a break. I just _had _a break. What I _need _is to get back to what I was doing, and…"

But Garak persisted. "Or you might even consider some time off. Take a vacation. Get away for a while. For instance, somewhere like… the military outpost on Velos II?"

A subtle change in the tone of one man's voice gave the other reason to pause. "Why?"

And now the tailor stood so close that O'Brien had to strain to look up far enough to see his eyes. "I still have some useful… let's call them 'acquaintances', on Cardassia," he continued. "Old friends, people who share my view of the current situation, and one or two with whom I have come to a somewhat more _reluctant_ understanding. Now let's suppose, hypothetically, that one of these same former acquaintances just happened to stumble upon the location of a mutual friend of ours."

"Why ask me?" growled O'Brien, still frowning.

Garak's stare intensified, even though barely a muscle shifted upon his pale grey face. "I sincerely hope you wouldn't need me to provide the answer to _that _particular riddle. Suppose for a moment I were party to a modicum of intelligence concerning the good doctor. And suppose that I had cause to share this same information with you. The real question ought to be, what are _you _going to do about it?"

* * *

A tiny cubicle at the very rear of the Jem'Hadar ship had barely enough space for Julian Bashir to fit inside. He guessed it must have doubled as a cabin of some kind, but failed to visualise how the bulky Jem'Hadar could ever get themselves through that narrow door.

It was in this place where the servants of the Dominion had deposited and finally abandoned Bashir. The air within was uncomfortably heavy, and cold as though the walls themselves were set to channel the bleakest chill of space. There were no windows on board the warship. He could not feel its speed, and without a visible reference point, he doubted that he would have the opportunity to be certain of how far they had come. But even so, he could not imagine that they would have a reason to stop - not before they had crossed back into their own territory.

"_Does this remind you of anything?" A coldly deliberate smile had touched the Vorta's face, as he stood at the entrance to their captive's most recent prison._

Solitary_, thought Julian, with an involuntary shudder. A constricting, airtight box, silence broken only by the outside noises of feet pounding on metal, and the constant dull ache of hunger. Nothing at all to ease the constant uncertainty, the suspicion that his guards might one day simply forget to feed him, or even to replenish his supply of air._

_And one more thing he'd never experienced the desire to understand. On that day, months ago, when the powerful arm of a Jem'Hadar had thrust him hard against the wall, Deyos' face had worn the same empty, humourless smile._

They were not making any pretence at friendship. Of that much, Bashir was certain - although he was not at all sure how he felt about this particular discovery. It hardly mattered that a Jem'Hadar was posted at the exit, or that there were at least ten more set at various points in the corridors of the ship. Even had he succeeded in eluding every one, he was alone, with little idea of their current position and no possible way to leave his guards behind him.

_Impossible odds_.

It was not a thought he had wanted to have, but the words had already invaded his mind before he was able to put any defences in place. Weak and trembling with fearful anticipation, he crept into a corner and slid down to huddle in the place where one wall met the other. It was dark inside the claustrophobic space, tight and small as the deepest snake-hole. And the solid touch on two different sides was the closest thing to comfort that he could ever have found.

Bashir did not want to guess at what his blood pressure must have been. He sensed the throb of each heartbeat pass directly beneath his skin, and the last hint of light around him bore an eerie, necrotic tone that frightened him still more. All he could do was to wish that his memory were not so horribly clear. Deyos' calculated voice ran in a constantly cycling loop as clearly as if the Vorta were still speaking in his ears.

"_If it were entirely my decision I would _never _consider resorting to such barbarity. But our Cardassian allies are far less advanced in their sensibilities, and they just had to insist that such actions are necessary. So you see…" _

"_I don't care who's idea this was," Bashir spat, lips curled reflexively into a snarl. He flinched invisibly, anticipating his captors' expected reaction. But for this time at least, there was none to anticipate._

_Deyos shifted his weight to settle at his heels. "Do please try to be a _little _less stubborn, Doctor. It would save us all from having to make some very unpleasant choices, don't you think?"_

"_Didn't you hear me the first time? I don't have any information for you. Even if I had the slightest inclination to tell you, I just don't know."_

"_A pity." His captor spoke levelly, his voice betraying no hint of true regret. "Well, never say that I didn't try."_

Bashir's stomach was squirming, particularly when he thought about everything the Chief had told him. Enemies of Cardassia had never been treated well when captured. And even without a proper point of reference, his conversation with Deyos had made him certain of one important thing. Whatever else, they had to be nearing Cardassian space by now. If they had not already crossed the border.

* * *

The passengers of the Federation transport shuttle had not been the first assortment of nervous, dishevelled visitors to be processed for entry onto Deep Space Nine. They were gathered by the airlock, still huddled together, glancing around, and muttering in subdued, bewildered voices. They were accompanied by a small, buxom Lieutenant Commander who introduced herself as one of the _Darwin_'s senior counsellors.

"Did you run into any more trouble on your way?" Doctor Hayes asked, his words hushed - hopefully inaudible beyond a two or three metre radius.

The counsellor's reply carried only a fraction of the volume of his query. "If you mean did anyone come after us, I'd say the answer is no. It would seem that the Dominion got what they were after."

Hayes suppressed a frown, wishing that he could take the woman's answer as good news, and returned his attention to the _Ragnarok_'s still frightened civilian passengers.

_Hardly surprising that they should be nervous_, thought Hayes. In less than a year, he'd encountered the Dominion too many times for it to be anything but familiar. The experience never failed to establish an uneasy chill beneath the skin of his back. Careful to maintain the appearance of a smile, he stepped forward to address the crowd.

"Ladies and gentlemen, if I could have your co-operation for just another moment…"

"What is that?" demanded a balding, round-bellied man with hair the colour of crows' feathers. Behind him, there was a brief glance of exasperation from the _Darwin_'s counsellor.

_There always has to be one, doesn't there_?

"It's just a simple blood screening," Hayes assured him. "Standard procedure."

"There's nothing _standard _about that." The man's round cheeks quivered with every movement. "What now - you think we're all shapeshifters?"

"Of course not, Sir. It's just a precautionary measure…"

The same angry visitor recoiled from a vial that was clasped in the doctor's hand. "This is outrageous," he shouted. "In all my years of service I've never been subjected to such treatment as this. Where's your superior officer? I _demand _to speak with him…"

"That would be me," said a deep voice close behind Hayes' left hand shoulder.

Sisko had approached from the corridor, where he kept his most level gaze on the crowd of people before him. "What seems to be the problem?" he asked after introducing himself by rank and name. Hayes soon found himself entirely focused on that deep, steady voice. It was a tone which experience had taught him to associate with imminent danger and deliberate false patience.

The outraged civilian stormed forward, every footfall as loud as crashing rock. "It's about time, too. When is somebody here going to stop shunting us around like outdated cargo and treat us with a modicum of respect?"

"I'm sorry that you feel that way." Sisko raised an eyebrow. "And you are?"

"Horace Pembleton, and I'm still waiting for an answer."

Hayes was quick to recognise the exasperation behind his captain's eyes, and doubted that he'd had any real success at concealing his own.

"Mister Pembleton--" Sisko's voice remained as slow and deep as he could make it. "I'm sorry if that's the way you feel. We won't hold you up for long, but I'm afraid that none of this is open to negotiation. As soon as it's over I promise that you _will _be free to leave."

The man opened his mouth to protest again, but was interrupted by another, quieter, slightly timid voice behind him.

"Here." The speaker was a woman, taller than Pembleton, with gleaming chocolate-brown hair draped halfway down to her waist - and skin and eyes the colour of dark caramel. Hayes also noticed that there were tired, dark smears beneath the skin of her lower eyelids. Her mouth twitched slightly in a failed attempt at a smile.

"I'll go first," she told them, with a careful glance at Pembleton, behind her. She stepped towards the waiting officers and returned her attention - with deliberate calm - directly to Hayes' own watching blue eyes.

"I just want it to be over," she said. Hayes nodded. There was no need for an explanation, for him to understand that much at least.

The same woman let go of a quiet sigh, steeling herself for things to come. "What do I have to do?"

* * *

O'Brien was glad to find that Quark's Bar was quiet enough that he did not have to surround himself with the raucous shouts of customers, too many of whom were feeling so much luckier than he did. The bar itself was close to deserted. Only two Bajoran engineers sat at one end. And of course there was also Morn, sipping a glass of bitter tan-coloured ale, bulky enough as usual for his hefty frame to dwarf his favourite stool.

With almost no-one to wait upon, the Ferengi waiters were using the time to take apart the props of yesterday's ceremony. Strange, thought O'Brien. But their activity somehow gave the bar an even more subdued feel than would have settled upon the place if these backdrops had simply been absent.

The Chief made his way to one far-off end of the bar, and did his best to divert his scowl from the glaring lights on the wall opposite. Barely seated, he spied the odd jumble of shapes that was Quark the bartender, already moving his way. The small Ferengi was not moving with particular haste, but even so he reached his target much more quickly than expected.

It was near impossible to define for sure, but… There was something even more irritating than normal about seeing that oversized head, protruding ears, and too-gaudy jacket with light and dark segmented into a pattern like salmon flesh. Quark flashed a momentary grin, showing a mouthful of sharp, uneven teeth. "Greetings, Chief. Always a pleasure to find you here…"

Glowering quietly, O'Brien opened his mouth to snap at the disturbance. But before he had a chance, he discovered that Quark had set a drink onto the bar in front of him.

"What's that?"

"Something from my best case of Saurian brandy," the Ferengi lisped as he poured another glass for himself. "And I'm willing to offer it at a very reasonable…"

He hesitated, seeing the Chief's mood darken still further, and pushed one glass across the counter towards him. "…On the House."

O'Brien looked up, slowly and warily. "What's the catch?"

"No catch. I only wanted to share a drink with you."

"Share?"

"Just don't let it get around." After another short pause, the Ferengi raised his own glass.

"A toast," he continued. "To absent friends, wherever they may be."

"What have people been telling you?" O'Brien demanded, his scowl deepening.

"Telling me? I'm not at all sure I know what you…"

Breathing hard through his nose, the engineer glowered at Quark with enough ferocity to have turned the bartender to a smouldering cinder - if only he had been able. Words rose inside him, bubbling like overcooked stew, melting into each other, and finally slipping back into shady corners even he could not hope to reach. Still glaring, he staggered backwards for two steps - away from his barstool - and just as suddenly whirled around and cut a direct path towards the main exit of the dimly lit establishment.

"Fine!" shouted Quark after him. "Then I'm keeping the drink."


	12. 04

Garak looked up from the headless, motionless, upright form of his tailor shop manikin. It had taken a lot of adjustments - some of them bordering on miniscule - to get the gown to sit in just the right position to show off the flowing velvet curves. And it was important to display it to the best advantage, especially as it was something so… _well tailored_.

Extremely well tailored - if he did say so himself.

The first thought to enter his mind, with the sound of opening doors, was that his enemies had finally come to take him. But that was not an unusual assumption, certainly he was accustomed enough to those kind of thoughts to be able to dispel them with relative ease.

Rather than some former associate or hired assassin, however, it was a flustered, red-faced engineer who rushed in through the open doors like a passing gust of wind.

The Cardassian turned precisely towards him, eyes wide and mouth already shaped into a politely inquisitive smile. _Could it be_? he wondered. Had their earlier conversation aroused some interest after all?

"You told me you had information," O'Brien panted, his face still redder than freshly plucked Altaran beets.

"I do recall mentioning something of the kind - yes." But he'd always known that it would really come down to the passage of time. The only real question had been, how _much _time?

O'Brien straightened, managing to hold together some measure of self-composure. But his eyes retained every degree of their initial determination.

"How soon can you be ready?"

"Ready?"

"You know what I mean, Garak," growled the Chief. "How soon can you be ready to leave?"

* * *

"I'd say that's the last of them, Captain," the doctor said, casting a tired glance at the pale, dark haired boy who'd only just stopped screaming and was now clinging inextricably to his mother's neck. There was no reason left not to clear them for station access.

The captain nodded. "Ladies and gentlemen," he addressed those still waiting. "Thank you once again for your patience, and please accept my apologies for any delay. Feel free to make use of station facilities while here and Ensign Corelli will be happy to answer any questions you may have."

"You realise, of course," began Hayes as both officers retraced their steps along the centre of the Promenade's lower level. The crew and passengers of the _Ragnarok _had finally ventured onto the station, and no-one was nearby to follow them, or interrupt their passage. "Whatever our orders from Starfleet Command, we still have the question of why this happened? And how."

"I haven't forgotten," Sisko told him.

A brief expression of worry passed across Hayes' face. "We haven't been ordered to stop investigating, have we?"

"Odo's due to report on that in under ten minutes." Sisko glanced about him, still disturbed by the unwillingness of the _Ragnarok_'s passengers to speak of their experience. In some small way, he supposed that he understood it. The shuttle captain had been more forthcoming, but there was little in his report with information enough to answer any of his questions, or Hayes'.

"Something else for the Constable to consider, then," the middle aged doctor continued. One large hand clutched the end of his opposite sleeve while the other tugged thoughtfully at his upper lip.

Sisko paused, and turned to face him directly. "What's that, Doctor?"

"I'm no expert in transporter operations," commented Hayes. "But I can't help but wonder how the Dominion could have managed to select exactly the right man in a crowd of fifty something, accurately enough to transport everyone else _but _him."

He stopped, sighed, nodded quietly to himself, but then peered into the distance over the shoulder of his commanding officer. "Something to think about," he muttered distractedly. The expression in his eyes changed again - now troubled enough to cause Sisko to follow the doctor's gaze.

The dark haired woman leaned against an outer wall of the Promenade, as if she had lost the energy to stand upright. Her head was bowed, back slouched into an exhausted curve, and Sisko noticed Hayes' eyes narrow thoughtfully as they approached.

Another of the shuttle's passengers had remained at her side - a slightly chubby youth whose face was framed by faded patterns to mark what may well have been a Trillian heritage.

"Corinna," whispered the same young man, shifting a mere inch or two closer to his tall companion. The woman looked up to where Captain Sisko was already watching from nearby.

"Are you in charge of this station?" She pushed herself smoothly to her feet. Her gaze was level, even as her words were quiet and tired.

At a nod from Sisko, the melancholy attempt at a smile returned to their visitor's face. "Corinna Anderson," she introduced herself, extending a hand and managing to shake the captain's, firmly.

There was something about her face, something very familiar although Sisko knew that they had never met. The youth beside her had already stepped away, to cross some undefined point between fore and background. He couldn't have been more than one or two years older than Sisko's own son, the station commander reflected. If that. And the woman would be… what? Thirty three? Thirty four?

Corinna still choked on her words, fighting through a persistent reluctance to speak. "Captain, I… Sorry. If you're not too busy, I was wondering…"

"Ask your question." The captain watched her, dark eyes wide and attentive. "It's no bother."

With a final near-silent, exhausted sigh, Corinna rubbed the bridge of her nose. She opened her eyes again, and Sisko was alarmed to find that they sparkled with fresh tears. "What do you think will happen to Julian?"

* * *

_The surrounding scrub was as blackened as the stone of the building itself had become, and what had once been a solid coating of paint had been reduced to a few dark patches burnt unevenly into every wall. There was scant evidence that the fire had spread very far beyond a twenty metre radius on either side. None of the surrounding farms had suffered any ill effects at all. But now, days later, the entire scene still bore a lingering smell of cold charcoal._

And _that _was most likely deliberate. _Kira Nerys shuddered at the thought, and at the memory of the unapologetic farmer who had taken responsibility for levelling the burnt out orphanage. Stepping around the edge of the rubble, she tried not to picture what it must have been like to be trapped in the midst of such a furious blaze._

_Dax herself had once suggested that Kira had a poor imagination, and there were times when the major longed for the ability to claim that she was right. More than a week had passed since the night of this destruction, more than a week since the flames had consumed the old house from within, devouring its heart and leaving behind a dried out, hollow crust._

"_Major," called one of the small Bajoran men, among the last remaining outside volunteers who had stayed behind to help sort through the scattered rubble and keep away opportunistic looters. The brightness of early afternoon glinted quietly from the straw-blonde of his hair as he turned his face towards her, anticipating her approach._

_Kira picked her way across the stones to where the man still crouched upon his heels. "What is it?"_

_The volunteer grunted, setting one more stone block aside. He left his fingerprints on the leaf-thin layer of ash and soot that marred its surface, and paused to wipe his brow before he finally looked again into the major's eyes. "I've found something."_

_Moments came and passed so quickly, and surprises were occasionally just enough to make her smile. The threat of conflict was still approaching like a storm on the horizon. There were times when smiles were too fleeting to notice, more so now that she had volunteered once more to sort through the aftermath of her compatriots' own stupidity. But now, on this day, she had come within reach of open laughter at the unexpected sight that met her eyes. She savoured the feeling. It was a rare treasure in her life, and far too precious not to be savoured._

"_What should we do with it, Major?" the same man asked her, and frowned slightly when he saw her moment of distraction. "Major?"_

"_Leave it with me," Kira said. "I'll make sure it finds its way home."_

* * *

O'Brien took something small and brown from the shelf at one end of his quarters, and held it in both hands, studying it in a brief, quiet moment of indecision. To bring something so precious on such a dangerous mission… What if they failed? What if they were scattered into atoms before they could even reach the Velos system? Perhaps it would be better to leave this behind, at least in a place where its future was more assured than his was likely to be.

But there was still that promise he'd made to Major Kira. He'd sworn to safeguard this object until the very first chance he had to return it. The _first_, he reminded himself, and silently renewed his determined vow. Perhaps he could enlist the aid of Elim Garak to carry out the necessary repairs.

With luck, this same longed for opportunity ought to come much sooner than he'd previously expected it to.

* * *

Before stepping over the rim that divided the corridor from her temporary quarters, Corinna had not realised how much strange it was to _know _that the glow of sunrise would never come through that broad-edged window. With the door shut behind her, the dark, enclosed space was oppressively silent. Like a vice tightening steadily around her.

She had always preferred quiet, secluded places, if only for the peace that they provided. But even in the absence of human company, there had always been something. The song of birds, or the flutter of a window being pushed and pulled by a passing breeze. Even the occasional comforting patter of rain. This was not that kind of silence. Rather, it was eerily heavy - as solid and painful as if the gradual constriction in her chest had come from something real.

_But this is exactly the sort of privacy you asked for. Remember_? she insisted to herself. _You wanted this - a chance to talk to Liam and the girls, without being watched by anyone nearby_.

It was a small mercy that there was nobody in the room with her, who would notice her reaction when the screen lit up to show the trio of expectant faces. The family had instantly exchanged their greetings - far too impatient to wait for the usual accustomed pause.

Sitting in her father's lap with her head resting against his chest, Tessa stared at something beyond the view of the screen, and mumbled softly to herself.

"And this one isn't going to bed on time." Liam nodded towards Meg.

The girl squirmed under the weight of her mother's scrutiny, and rubbed both eyes with agitated fingers.

"Meg," Corinna scolded. "You go to bed like your father says."

"Mum…"

"Did you hear me?"

Meg nodded. "Aye. Mum…"

"What is it?"

"Are you coming home soon?"

Corinna smiled, already bracing herself to say goodbye. "Soon as I can, sweetie."

Above all else, she hoped that her promise was true. But Liam was already whispering in both girls' ears. "I have to talk to your mother for a while, okay?"

They nodded quietly. Corinna blew them a parting kiss. "Love you."

"Love you too," came Meg and Tessa's uneven chorus. Their mother felt a clenching pain deep inside their mother's chest as the children jumped down and shifted from her sight.

Liam watched them for a moment longer before returning to their communication. "Is it bad?"

Corinna nodded, finally allowing some of her tears to creep across the surface of her eyes.

"Are _you _all right?" Her husband leaned a little closer, dropping his voice until it was barely a degree above silence.

_I'm fine_, she'd been set to reply, but averted her gaze with a near invisible shake of her head.

"I don't know," she confessed. "They didn't hurt us, if that's what you mean. Not _most _of us, anyway. But…I… They're not even going to look for him, Liam. The captain told me they've been ordered not to do a single thing about it. Oh God. I don't know what to do."

"May I make a suggestion then?"

His wife nodded tiredly, and Liam offered a comforting smile. "If I know you at all, you've got yourself wound up tighter than an old-style corkscrew. Take a long sonic shower. Sit for a moment. Close your eyes. _Relax_. I'm right, aren't I?"

With a noiseless chuckle, Corinna conceded to the wisdom of the man she had come to love more than any other. "I miss you," she whispered. Her own dark eyes looked up, and pleaded, searching his face for any answer to the multitude of dilemmas that had come to plague her mind.

"I miss you too, Love." The voice on the open comm was every bit as quiet as hers, but now with a slightly harder edge behind it. Glancing reluctantly over one shoulder, Liam sighed. "Listen, I have to get supper on the table…"

"That's true. The girls will be getting hungry…"

"I'll call you again soon," he promised.

"Same time tomorrow?" Corinna was surprised at how plaintive her query sounded.

The image in front of her nodded. "Tomorrow."

Leaving the console behind, she glanced around at the skeletal emptiness of the station's guest quarters, and imagined for a moment that she could still hear her daughters' musical laughter. But even this soon faded like dying echoes. Spotting a bed at the very edge of the room, Corinna dropped onto the hard, thin mattress. She gazed around her at the lights at its head, at the dark grey walls, the rounded window watching like an eye, and the sparsely placed impersonal ornaments arranged upon the walls and furniture.

Finally, she bowed her head and looked to where her hands were locked together in her lap. Tears were slick upon her face, wet and warm, slowly trickling downwards. Tucking both arms into a tight, foetal cross against her chest, she curled into a tiny ball upon the bed, and made no further efforts to stop herself from sobbing to the silence of this dark and lonely room.


	13. 05

"Get up."

The deep, rough voice was sharp as a blade, and Bashir felt the point of an energy rifle jab equally harshly into his shoulder blade. He struggled to push himself upright, still a little slouched from the restrictive space of the cell, and clutched that same point between shoulder and back, wincing as his fingers located the olive-hued bruise that had been steadily rising from his most recent attempts to tell the Jem'Hadar that he needed sustenance.

He doubted that his guards would have any concern for the unsteadiness in his arms and legs, or care that his head was fuzzy with cold and his throat ached from a constant, stabbing thirst.

"Wear this," snarled the Dominion soldier, tossing him a scant, dirty tunic.

Backing into a corner, Julian glanced hurriedly from one cold stare to the next. He snatched the meagre garment to himself as though it was a treasure to be hoarded.

"Why?"

The guard stepped forward, deliberately silent, until his scaly grey-green body filled the tiny room. He lifted the point of his gun so that it now stabbed painfully into his prisoner's belly. "If you require incentive, I will gladly give it to you."

The cloth against his skin was thin and starchy, barely long enough to reach halfway down his thighs, and provided scant protection against the knowledge that beneath this thin barrier, he was still entirely vulnerable to every one of this soldier's whims.

A second Jem'Hadar stepped forward, bulky fingers clasped around a pair of metal restraints. "Hands in front of you."

The metal fitted poorly around Julian's wrists, its corners biting and chaffing against his bones. The first speaker poked him again with his angry looking rifle, so hard that he overbalanced, staggering perilously close to the wall of his cell.

"Now," he barked. "Out."

They forced him into a barely lit corridor. The walls and ceiling appeared to have been constructed from the same matte grey metal as the interior of DS9, with an all over gloom to emphasise every leering shadow, further obscuring the distant artificial lights. Their beams scarcely touched the backs of the bulky, reptilian humanoids as they marched in close formation on every side.

The Dominion base was warmer than the cramped interior of their ship had been, but the same agonising chill continued at the very core of Bashir's chest. He remained slightly off-balance, shivering even in the heat of environmental controls preset for Cardassian comfort. His guard forced him over a raised platform, stepping an instant later into the same long metal corridor.

It was darker even than the gridded shadows of Deep Space Nine's habitat ring. All shadows on either side of him were accentuated by the gloom, until he imagined that they had shape-shifted into a procession of hungry ghosts, arms stretched upward as if to tear him asunder. Alarmed to discover how quickly he had tired, Bashir forced each robotic step although he saw very little evidence that they had progressed very far.

Time stretched to a dull infinity, and for every section of the passage to seem like a mere facsimile of every other. And with his hands still restrained it was even harder to stop himself from stumbling into the walls.

_No_. He was tired, sore, and just as undeniably uncertain and afraid. All four guards were much too focused on even the slightest movements that he made, and his fear was very possibly the only thing remaining that could afford him the chance to stay alert.

Two more figures approached from around a corner. In the dim light, even with the length of a corridor between them, Bashir discerned their over all shape, and the scales along the outline of their subtly textured skin - before he was able to see their faces.

In the absence of that broad, stiff armour resting awkwardly across his shoulders, the more distant of these newcomers would have been imposing even by Cardassian standards. He was a giant, standing at least six feet tall, and possibly even close to seven, with a thick, strong jaw, full lips, a bulbous nose that was awkward and misaligned, and hair streaked at irregular intervals with pencil-thin lines of premature grey.

His companion - a woman, smaller although her movements had a far more calculated quality about them - glanced at their visitor with distant interest. Her cold brown eyes looked first to the restraints around the Human's wrists, and finally back up at his face.

"A prisoner?" she inquired in a clear, harsh voice.

The Jem'Hadar guards stiffened noticeably. One tightened both hands around his rifle. Without turning around, all he revealed to Julian was little more than the rippled surface of his neck and the gleaming black of his hair. "That is correct."

"Good," responded the Cardassian woman. Finally, she stared at Bashir, a calculated, serpentine smile touching only the lower half of her face. "This one looks as if he may yet provide some challenge."

Spinning around on her heel, she strode away and called to her enormous colleague - neither turning back or even slowing her pace. "Dora'el. Be sure to escort our guest to his proper destination."

* * *

Corinna was still off balance with the approach of morning, groggy like she was still half shrouded in dreams. She pushed away the memory of her family's voices, crying out to her from the darkest shadows of sleep. Eyes barely open, dry and aching as though encased in amber, she hauled herself into a sitting position, rubbed her neck, and smoothed her tousled hair. "Come in."

She stood at the sound of an opening door, and at the sight of her visitor entering. "Toran." Her voice was muffled - reluctant. "Hi."

Kwan hesitated a moment. "Are you okay?"

_What's okay_? It came as a surprise, how easily the answer could be forgotten. But Corinna nodded without even a sideways glance at his face.

"Did you get a chance--?" Toran also averted his gaze, and ran a hand over the curved filaments of a sculpture on a shelf at the end of the room.

"To talk to your family, I mean," he elaborated, in answer to the question in his companion's eyes.

Corinna responded with a silent affirmative. "They're doing all right," she added, but was not entirely sure if it was Kwan she'd been speaking to - or herself.

A night spent crying had left moist tears upon her pillow, and she sensed the same wetness still drying across one cheek. She was drained of energy, although not of resolve. But at least there was one confession from which she could take comfort. In some strange way, she did feel a little better for it. With the faraway image of her husband and daughters still fresh in her thoughts, she hadn't believed that she'd ever be able to sleep, and was far from certain that she really should have done.

On the other hand…

"I've got some good news too." Kwan interrupted her troubled reflections, his cocoa brown eyes suddenly bright with excitement. "I've been offered a place on the _Darwin_. Civilian liaison, and _official _correspondent to the Federation News Service. Starting tomorrow. Where she goes, I go."

Corinna remembered a small puppy that she'd had as a child, with more energy than she imagined any creature could ever have, eager to attach himself to every life form that he could find. She smiled quietly in spite of herself, and resisted an urge to shake her head in fond exasperation. Kwan had pestered the off-duty ensigns aboard the _Darwin _with determined curiosity and an unceasing stream of questions.

And despite everything, the youth's enthusiasm did seem to make her day seem a little brighter. "Then what are your plans until then?"

He shrugged. "Don't know. What are yours?"

_Find Julian_… She barely stopped herself from saying it. It was as ill-defined a plan as a trip from Earth to Mars without a shuttle to get her there. "Actually, I don't really have any plans," she confessed.

"We could go…" Kwan's brow furrowed as he searched for the right word. "We could go to… the Replimat. Yeah - let's go there. I hear they do a great Andorian salad."

* * *

"It is not at all difficult," Odo was saying, as he and the captain stood at one corner of the upper level of the Promenade - the same corner, Sisko noted, that had once been his son's favourite place on the station. "All that it would require is a single moment of contact. A handshake, or even a passing touch would be sufficient for the transfer of a thin chemical adhesive. Of course it would have to be discernable enough to be detected by the Dominion's transporters. My theory is that their agent then place him or herself in some pre-arranged position, so as not to present them with the added complication of deciding between two identical signals."

"Could this chemical still be identified?" pondered the captain.

"Certainly," replied Odo. "Commander Dax has expressed a belief that the substance used was most likely to have been something metallic."

Sisko nodded quietly. "And you think this is the method the Dominion used?"

"More than that," Odo informed him. "I have proof."

"Proof?"

"Most certainly, Captain." The Constable gazed at the lower level like a general surveying a field of battle. Both arms were folded stiffly across his chest. "I have the one responsible already in custody."

"Dad!"

Sisko had scarcely noticed his own incredulous stare, not until he was startled and distracted by this unexpected shout. Odo looked first to its source, the captain barely an instant later.

He smiled. "Jake-o."

"Is it true what they say?" Jake Sisko had come close to double speed, accelerating to a steady trot as he hurried to catch up with his father. "Oh. Hi, Odo."

He was gasping, out of breath even though the older Sisko had never known his son to be particularly unfit. Receiving a cursory nod from the Constable, Jake turned back to the rock-steady face of his father, whose smile had notably vanished. "So, is it?"

"That depends," his father replied, and stepped around until they were face to face. "Is what true?"

"About Doctor Bashir, of course. I heard it from Nog, and he heard it from Morn, who heard it from…"

"All right, Jake." The captain's shoulders heaved in a sigh, or perhaps in an attempt to banish the weighty ache now tightening across them. "Very likely, yes. If what people say is what I imagine they're saying."

The sudden tension in Jake's face was indication enough that the older Sisko's guess had been an accurate one.

"I don't understand. Why isn't anyone doing anything about it?"

"We'll talk about this later, Jake. I have a lot of work to do."

"So that part _is _true." The young man did not sound as properly chided as his father wished him to have been. "Unless you care to deny it?"

Ben Sisko scowled at his son's raised finger, now pointed emphatically upwards, and quelled the flood of admonishments that had been pushing for escape. "That's it," he growled. "You have _officially _overstepped the mark."

* * *

"So, it's become a 'rumour' now," commented Sisko as he and Odo stepped from the turbo lift. There was a level of ambient conversation on the lower level, but it was not at all difficult to notice the spaces still left empty by those who had not returned - even after he and his officers had reclaimed the station. He paused to glance at yet another deserted stall, a jeweller's shop this time, that had once sold the most delicate trinkets, ornaments of gleaming silver and colourful Bajoran gemstones.

"We can scarcely expect our latest civilian arrivals to keep a secret as easily as military personnel," Odo reminded him.

"I suppose that's true enough." Sisko grunted softly - a brief, involuntary chuckle without any trace of happiness. "And I suppose the Founders decided that Julian wasn't worth replacing this time around."

Odo's expression betrayed his discomfort. He had never particularly enjoyed talking about the Dominion's leaders. "But they did go significantly out of their way to capture him," he rumbled. "I'd say that counts for something."

"How so?"

The Constable answered as if on cue. "It means there may be some chance that they are keeping him alive."

"But what would they be keeping him alive _for_?"

The captain balled one hand into a fist, wanting nothing more than to pound the nearest available hard surface. Held back by orders to remain, to await some hypothetical battle for which there had so far been little likelihood at all, he closed his eyes with such a deep inward breath that his nostrils flared.

"Whatever their reason," was the changeling's reply. "At least we can take _some _hope from the idea."

"But can we? Really?"

Odo stopped ouside the doors to his office, carefully studying the captain's frown. "You don't think so?"

Sisko considered his response, but quickly found that there were only two possible answers that he could offer - both of them far from bearable. _What now_? he asked himself. Was he supposed to feed his officers placatory half-truths, or give in to the even less savoury confession that he wasn't sure which outcome would be the lesser evil?

"Captain Sisko?"

He turned to the anxiously plaintive voice beside him, and noticed that Doctor Bashir's cousin had approached along the Promenade. The half-Trill youth was back at her side, although he was slower to reach the place where she now stood.

"Would you mind very much, Captain?" Corinna forced a smile. "After all, I know the last thing you must want right now is to have some anxious relative constantly at your heels."

"By all means, no," was Sisko's reply. "I don't mind at all."

He noticed Kwan scratch his head a little awkwardly, ruffling his hair so that it stuck out at unusual angles as soon as he took his hand away.

"Is your family well?" the station's commanding officer asked in an effort to put them both at their ease.

"My husband is fine," responded Corinna. "I spoke to him and the girls last night."

"Girls?"

She nodded. "I have two daughters, eight and three. But Captain, they aren't what I came to talk about. Please. I have to know…"

"Perhaps we ought to find somewhere a little quieter."

In other words, _less public_. With a gentle pressure on Corinna's upper arm, Sisko glanced momentarily at his Chief of Security.

Odo nodded once. "My office is at your disposal, Captain."

With a quietly grateful smile, Sisko ushered the slender Human inside.

* * *

Corinna sensed the beat of her heart intensify, her muscles tighten with every step as all four entered the darkened office. As she accepted Sisko's invitation to sit in one of the visitor's chairs, she realised with a start that she was still holding her breath.

But there was something behind the captain's dark eyes - hard, determined, and confident enough for some part of it to pass to her. The stubborn glare of a warrior, she realised, but tempered with something that went well beyond the cold stoicism she'd come to expect from a high-ranking officer. She opened her mouth, a question forming, but allowed the thought to pass before allowing it a chance to congeal into any kind of sentence.

Turning to one side, and allowing Corinna a near perfect view of his profile, Benjamin Sisko rubbed irritably at the back of his closely shaved head.

"Should I go?" the young woman asked him.

"No." Sisko shook his head, although still distracted. "No. I intend to tell you as much as I possibly can, before it spreads all over the station. You should know that we are still investigating the details - but there is a possibility that there may have been others involved in the _Ragnarok _incident, and it's very likely that these people targeted Julian deliberately."

"What?"

The other officer - the one who'd been accompanying Sisko - stepped forward. This man was clothed in a suit of light and dark beige, with an ovular badge attached to the opposite side of his chest than Sisko's.

_He must be the Constable_, thought Corinna. Julian kept up some contact with his former colleagues. But his conversations were always entirely private, and he had mentioned little to her about Deep Space Nine, or his experience of Starfleet. She noted something very unusual about this other man's face, like a half carved sculpture, or thick rubber mask. Clear blue eyes watched sternly from beneath a small, hairless brow.

There was a low timbre to Odo's voice when he finally spoke, a rumble to match his expression. "What do you know about a Human organisation that calls itself the Purity Front?"

"The Anti-gens?" Corinna shuddered coldly. "Why would you want to know about them?"

Odo maintained his steady pose. "We believe there may have been a member of their group aboard the same transport you boarded. They probably chose to make the journey only after one of their leaders saw the passenger manifest."

"But what would that have to do with…?"

"You think someone on board was working for the Dominion."

Corinna jumped, startled at the sound of Kwan's voice. In the ever constricting silence, she had forgotten that he was still at her side. "But that's… _treason_," she gasped. "Just to get to Julian? It makes no sense."

"Disturbing thought," the captain agreed.

* * *

Sisko was grateful to be interrupted by the sound of the door sliding open, followed immediately afterward by a voice at the entrance. "Captain… Oh. Excuse me. I'll come back later."

All four faces turned to its source. "Not at all, Major," replied Sisko. He stepped around the Constable's desk.

"I'll be back shortly," he told the others, and turned back towards Kira. "Now, Major. What was it you wanted?"

"Captain…" She hesitated by the door, as though unsure of where to start. Her voice was hushed and tense. "It's O'Brien, Sir. And… Garak."

"_Garak_?" The captain's secret relief dissipated as abruptly as it had begun.

"I'm afraid so." With another glance to one side, Major Kira lowered her voice still further. So it _wasn__'__t_ merely a bad dream. "They've… er… They've stolen a runabout."


	14. 06

"They're flying into Dominion space?" Sisko's voice rose to keep pace with his mounting disbelief. "In the middle of a war? In a _runabout_?"

Kira Nerys recognised the fire that blazed behind his eyes. She understood what impulse had led him to grab her by the arm, and tug her from the Security office with enough force to hurt. She could still feel the after-effects of his large hand around her upper arm, and rubbed involuntarily at the place where it throbbed with a dull, steady pain. But she knew just as well that whatever frustration he expressed was scarcely directed at her, or even at O'Brien and Garak.

"It's not so inexplicable, if you really think about it," she reasoned, but regretted even this brief comment, when faced with the captain's thunderous glare.

"And no less _stupid _for that," Sisko growled.

The major nodded, conceding his point. She had considered arguing further, and discovered even then that her mouth was open to provide a rebuttal - which she may well have done in the initial days after the Cardassians' withdrawal from Bajor. But since then, she had developed a reflexive habit of swallowing back the angry comments she generally longed to make. Instead, her response was considerably more subdued - so much that it barely carried. "Do you think they have a chance?"

"Possibly," said the captain, but then closed his eyes, sighing, head bowed. He rested one closed fist against the wall.

"One disaster at a time." He paused, with an audible sigh. But when he finally opened his eyes again, Sisko's expression was oddly resigned, although darker than a gathering storm. He turned once more towards Kira. "I'll meet with you again before too long, Major, but for the moment I'll leave it to you and Dax to ascertain their most likely heading. Right now, there's somewhere else I need to be."

* * *

_Orders_.

The thought reached Sisko, together with a surprisingly bitter taste at the point where his throat joined the back of his mouth. _That's the bottom line, isn't it? We're still under orders_.

As far as he saw it, a large part of the problem was that he could not stop himself from secretly agreeing with Kira. He had felt the same churning impatience ever since his talk with Ross, partaken of that same rotten dish and tasted the same acrid bitterness at the admiral's stern directive. He did understand whatever sentiments had led the Chief and Garak on their foolish escapade. Perhaps he was just as stupid as they, but a part of him had little desire to force them back to the station.

In spite of the anger inside him, he was just as loathe to punish his Chief Engineer upon his return. Assuming, of course, that O'Brien stayed alive for long enough to face the consequences.

Both their guests were still in the office, Kwan with his hands locked together and elbows resting against his thighs, Corinna with her back to Sisko as she gazed unhappily down at her lap. She turned at the sound of Sisko's renewed approach, and he winced at the even deeper hurt in the woman's dark caramel eyes.

Odo also locked his gaze together with that of his captain, and coughed quietly as though he had not expected the interruption any more than his present company.

Again with eyes averted downwards, Corinna rose to her feet and stepped hurriedly towards the exit. Her brow was gathered into what looked like a painful frown. "Captain," she muttered quickly - never even glancing towards him.

_Let her go_, Sisko told himself. _She's not ready to talk any more. Let her escape from here, if that's what she wants_.

"We'll talk again," he promised her in a soft whisper. Nodding briefly, Corinna stepped through the door. Toran Kwan disappeared after her, smiling a little awkwardly as he cast a final glance at the dark eyes of DS9's commander. The doors closed, leaving a solid cloud of silence in their wake. Sisko felt it expand until it pressed against his back and chest.

"I want to see your prisoner," he told Odo, his voice cast deliberately low enough to cut through the weighty tension in the air.

The Constable nodded. "I thought you might."

* * *

Jocelyn Davies looked up at the captain until her pale blue eyes finally caught the light. "It's was never for myself." Her voice was clear, confident and steady. "We in the Federation have sacrificed too many ideals already - made too many compromises - and lines have to be drawn."

"Those kind of ideals are all very nice, _in theory_." Sisko glared at the prisoner through the transparency of the forcefield. He had listened to the information of his Security Chief - all about this woman, her name, her cause… and far more about her crime than he'd ever cared to know, although he questioned the notion that ignorance would have made him feel any better. "But what you have done is an act of terrorism, and treason."

"You make it sound so definitive."

"Which is exactly what it is."

Davies appeared to consider her position, as though investigating a diverting toy. "The Dominion has the resources we needed," she said, once more looking out of her cell. "That's all."

"_What_?"

"It is unfortunate about your doctor, Captain Sisko," responded Davies. "But even more unfortunate that centuries ago, there were _many _more people than now who would have considered our lives, our _humanity_, to be sacrosanct."

Now, finally, she stood and approached the forcefield. The blue of her eyes was as intense as a New Orleans summer, but far, far colder. "We can't just sit around as idle bystanders, watching others tear apart that same humanity and twist it around for no more than their own selfish ends. We'll lose everything we _are_, don't you see? We'll be no better than the Borg, if we allow ourselves to turn each other into something that's no longer…"

"No longer what?" prompted Sisko, feeling sick at his core. "No longer human?"

He could see from the sudden shift in her gaze that his guess had at least been close to accurate. His shoulders heaved in its struggle to contain the anger in each deep inward breath. _Treason_, he thought. _She__'__s willing to commit treason - not to mention, endanger a good man in the process - just for the satisfaction of some narrow-minded definition of humanity_.

Still, before he had known, there had always been that part of him - the barely perceived voice that might once have agreed with Davies' assessment. There was still that unwanted flash of sympathy, and knowledge that - in theory, at least, in a distant, intellectual setting where his voice was not likely to carry any consequences - he might have argued the same points as she. But theory was very different from action. That was something he could never countenance.

"So." Still fighting for self-control, he shifted the focus to another, clearer topic. "That's why you made a pact with the devil - to safeguard your particular version of humanity. To cast one ideal in stone, you were willing to throw all others aside."

Davies' pale face was turned squarely towards him. "Don't tell me you've never considered making a few deals of your own," she reasoned. "Captain."

Turning on his heel, Sisko marched from the holding cells. Giving in to his sudden urge to punch the wall might release some of the rage that was now at boiling point, but it would not help his knuckles in the process.

* * *

Corinna found the Replimat a curious place, although a little subdued for the hour. She placed herself on a seat at the far corner, and set her steaming herbal tea onto the table's surface, with a quiet tap. The aroma was supposed to be soothing. It was supposed to calm the nerves, neutralise a downcast mood. But even as she felt the steam enter her nose, and smelt the accompanying scent, it was difficult not to slouch and allow the length of her hair to conceal the expression on her face.

"Thank you," she told Toran Kwan, who clasped his own mug in both hands.

The youth shrugged, although even his usual cheer seemed forced on that occasion. "No problem."

He looked around him, fidgeting slightly. "Twenty six hours…" He spoke to himself, and Corinna found that the sound of his voice may have even been a little amusing. It was his way, she supposed. Any words at all to break the silence at their table. Kwan smiled, although this was not his usual eager, excitable grin. "Haven't you always thought the day could use a little extra time?"

"You'd think so, wouldn't you," whispered Corinna.

_But all I can do with that time is sit around drinking tea_. She took a sip, and suppressed a quiet grimace at the taste of it.

_And pretty bland tea at that_…

She could see the struggle on Toran's face before he even spoke. "Are…" He stopped, hesitate, frowned momentarily, and began again. "_Are _you all right?"

"I'm useless." The ache in Corinna's throat was close to unbearable, and the words had escaped before she even realised she'd been about to say them. She shook her head. "That's what I am."

Kwan blinked, still frowning. "I wouldn't have thought so."

Corinna managed to smile, which caused an enthusiastic grin from Kwan. His new expression did more for her mood than any replicated drinks could possibly have done. "I wonder if the _Darwin_'s captain has any real idea just who he's taking on."

"What do you mean?"

"You're contagious, Toran!"

Her companion laughed aloud.

* * *

"Sit there."

Bashir tensed to back away, and forced himself not to glance behind him. The indicated furniture was a stunted, skeletal chair at the very centre of the room, with two angry shards of metal curving inwards from the corners of its back. The shape lent a likeness to its silhouette - something resembling a solid pair of horns. He had not noticed until that moment, but he was already dizzy, marginally able to maintain his sense of balance, and realising only then how shallow the irregular in and out of his breathing had become.

The Cardassian man raised his disruptor until the hollow at its tip of it was pointing directly at his captive's face. Julian gasped at the sudden, unyielding pressure of a soldier's hand against each arm, holding back a cry of alarm that was forced out anyway as both strong Cardassians man-handled him into the precisely jagged, isolated chair. Gritting his teeth, he heard the hiss of air pass sharply between them. He shuddered, eyes closed as if this would lessen the agony of hard metal against his tailbone, concentrating on the ragged heaving of his chest as the initial pain had dulled to a throbbing background ache.

A hand was at his shoulder, close to his throat. It was not painful, but cold and heavy - impossible to ignore. "Name," said a voice from the shadows. His focus sharp, Julian imagined that he saw the outline of somebody's face move in time to this detached query. But with the paucity of available light beyond his immediate surrounds, he supposed that obscure outlines were all that he was ever likely to see.

And there was still that cold, numbing weakness in his arms and legs - holding him down even without the guards at his side.

He hesitated.

"Name."

The deep voice had not varied its tone. It was steady, far too patient, possibly even just a little bored. There was no suggestion that the barely visible inquisitor expected to receive an answer, or even that he cared either way.

The arch through which they had entered was not yet closed to him. But even a backward glance, it seemed, was more than his courage would allow him. And where would he go? There was a slim chance that he could overpower the guards in this room, but at that moment it was less than one in a hundred. It was possible to succeed in that much, at least.

But even if he did, he would be lucky to get half a kilometre, and would almost certainly never make it away from this world. Not on his own, without access to a working ship. Could one man pilot a Jem'Hadar vessel, alone? He dismissed the idea in the moment that it occurred to him, knowing by instinct that any attempt at escape would require far better luck than the universe seemed willing to provide.

"I don't have any answers for you." Bashir forced a degree of control into his voice. "Whatever you think you can get from me, it won't work."

"Everybody says that," said the same cold voice. "And they all surrender, eventually."

"Perhaps they do. But there's nothing I can tell you. I simply don't know."

"Your old friend Deyos seems to believe otherwise."

"My old _friend _Deyos is wrong."

"We shall see."

_Oh, God_… Locking his fingers around the rungs of the chair did little to stop or even hide the agitated trembling of his hands.

Another sound came from the shadow before him. It was soft, barely distinguishable, and very nearly quiet enough to escape even Bashir's enhanced senses. But his heightened nerves easily provided as clear an amplifying effect as could have come from the acoustics of the room. The Cardassian interrogator was sighing.

"Very well." The man nodded to a guard waiting patiently, a mere step away from Bashir's line of sight. Julian flinched from the hand that suddenly entered his visual field, but what he finally saw of this man's face was every bit as void - the detachment of a soldier with just another mundane task.

_Clean your weapon. Polish your uniform. Report for duty on time, and say nothing of what you might see_. There was nothing in the young Cardassian's expression, not anger, or concern… Not even hostility, and its absence set an even greater chill in Bashir's heart than he would have gotten from the stab of open hatred.

Hands clamped around either side of his head. They were rough and determined, jerking him around to face forward again. He winced from the harsh pressure as much as from the memories they aroused. They were not about to beat him, he realised - although the thought brought no relief. None of those around him cared enough for that. Something hard was pressed against his throat, and he heard a familiar brief, sharp sigh.

The effect was rapid - an invading fog at the depths of his head, like the grip of some thick, ghostly cloud. They were the thickest, most solid of all… Advancing through the streets of his childhood home, until - enhanced or not - even he could hardly see four steps in front of him. Uselessly, he waved one hand in front of his eyes, and grunted as though to shoo away the tingle of imagined mites beneath his skin. Every breath was deep and slow. "Wha…?" he mumbled, even as his mouth grew dry and sticky, reluctant to move.

Indistinct colours advanced from the edges of his vision, as though a dark veil had been positioned across a tunnel. His head was heavy, eyes half closed and swollen. Distant pain swelled and faded behind them, but the ache across his lids was constant and steady. But then… _Eyes_? _What eyes_? Every part of him was distant - scarcely discernable from the surrounding air. The shape before him was shifting, blurring - dark mingling incorporeally with the light.

"Name," said the same cold voice.

He answered in a monotone, barely aware that he was speaking, no longer certain of why he'd ever resisted.


	15. 07

"May I join you?"

Secretly, for just a moment, Corinna studied the face of the speaker. This same young man held back a chair, with a questioning expression spread across his brow. But then, she realised, she _had _seen him earlier that morning - standing by the rails with the captain and the changeling Security officer at his side.

He was taller now than he had seemed from further away, dressed in a long magenta vest with lines of reflected light shifting across its creases. Still a little confused, Corinna indicated the extra chair the youth had pulled back in both hands.

He wasted no time in seating himself upon it. "I heard you were travelling with Doctor Bashir," he said. "Is that true?"

"How did you know?" asked Corinna.

"I'm a reporter. I hear things." At the combined puzzlement on the faces of his present company, the newcomer smiled. He half-nodded, half-cocked his head, as though conceding a point. "And…" he continued. "My best friend's a Ferengi. He hears things too. So, are you planning to stay here long?"

_I don't think so_, Corinna came close to admitting. But instead, she lifted her cup and stared quietly at its contents, recalling how centuries of Humans had learnt to find answers in the arrangement of their tea leaves. She wondered what these would have told her, if only she knew how to interpret them.

_But it probably doesn't work with replicated tea_, she reminded herself. No amount of staring was about to help her see what wasn't there to begin with.

Looking up, she saw that Kwan and the tall stranger were both eagerly anticipating her answer. She constructed a smile to set them at their ease. "It's possible," she confessed.

A moment of uncertainty passed beneath the young man's smile, but faded to a distant memory as he offered his hand to shake. "I'm Jake Sisko."

Corinna easily noticed the sudden change in Kwan's open smile, and doubted that anyone could have missed the renewed gleam of excitement in his eyes when his turn finally came for an introduction. "It's a pleasure to meet you, Mr Sisko," he gushed.

"Great meeting you too," replied the other young man. "Except I'm Jake, not Mr Sisko."

_The captain's son_, thought Corinna. Aloud, she took herself through the expected pleasantries. Gazing into her drink, she smiled wanly as she listened to Kwan's rapid and oft-rehearsed monologue. It seemed that all her smiles were sad in recent days. _But at least it's still possible_, she told herself. The captain's son was listening, also smiling - enough to display a row of even, white teeth.

_What is that_? Corinna wondered. _The interest of a writer, always eager to find out someone else's story_? Jake's interest seemed genuine enough, and she discovered that she was quickly coming to like him as much as she did Toran Kwan. It was strange. Both youths were so easy to like, each with their own charm, although she supposed that Jake's was more of the comfortable, easygoing kind - a clear contrast to Toran's unwavering excitement.

She hoped that their most recent acquaintance would be satisfied with Kwan's story, and would not expect the cousin of DS9's former doctor to start telling hers.

* * *

"Well," Corinna told Kwan. "I know you're all excited about this big adventure of yours. But don't stay away forever, will you?"

The youth's face opened to a grin. "I'll try."

They had said goodbye to Jake, on their way to the airlock, but not before one young man had wished the other good luck on his journey, and both had promised to meet again when the Starship _Darwin _returned from its mission.

And now, with a hand on each of Toran's arms, Corinna held him firmly and looked into his eyes. A shudder of uncertainty passed along her spine, like the ghost of old doubts or cold premonitions. Shaking away the mounting discomfort as best she could, she forced her expression into a smile. "You're welcome to drop by any time you happen to be on Earth."

_Why not promise to see him on his return_? she wondered, but got no answer from the dimly lit silence.

"I'd be delighted to meet your family." Kwan glanced behind him at the open airlock, and hoisted his bag again across his shoulder. "But now I really do have to go."

"Good luck." Impulsively, Corinna embraced the much younger man. She felt her arms tighten, pressing harder until she was no longer certain that she would ever be able to release him.

"Thanks," Toran gasped. He waited a moment to discover his voice. "But if you don't let me go, I'll miss my ship."

"Sorry."

He stepped back, still grinning. "I'll tell you all about it when I get back to the station," he said. And then his expression shifted again. The cheer in his voice was oddly subdued. "I'll tell Julian too. Don't worry. I'd bet anything you like, we'll see him again."

* * *

Chief O'Brien had never considered himself an expert on anything as obscure or esoteric as off-world architecture. As far as he saw it, the subject was far too academic - perhaps even a little distasteful. The province of stuffy professors in even stuffier halls, and better left for people who were infinitely more cerebral than he imagined himself to be.

But now, when he allowed himself the time to think about it, fitting together buildings and fitting together machinery were not so very different. Both required a lot of planning, mistakes, adjustments, even more hard work, and a well considered balance of aesthetics and functionality.

The kind of training those professors so valued was useful, he supposed, although scarcely necessary. There were always those easily recognisable forms - the ones that crept into the soul, so gradually that a man barely felt their advance. Not until the day when he looked at some unfamiliar edifice, and _knew_, without a thought, exactly what story it would have to tell.

Glancing around at the dark grey cast of the walls, each one marked by static shadows and sharp, metallic thorns - Miles felt the uncomfortable warmth upon his skin, and now he was entirely certain. Even if he had slept through the entire course of their journey, even without his vivid memories of their indirect heading and concerted efforts to avoid the sensors of Jem'Hadar, he would still have known This building was Cardassian.

More than that, O'Brien thought, still peculiarly aware of every scratch and shadow along its surface. There was something distinctive about it's style - something he was not quite able to identify. It was the same notion yet again - the feeling that he _knew_. This place had stood for at least a hundred years, beyond the Cardassian Empire at its height and eventual decline. And it was likely to remain standing for a good deal longer.

"_Set down here," Garak had told him. "There's an abandoned mining facility on the dark side of that moon, and there ought to be just enough deposits of deuterium left in the rock to mask our warp signature."_

"_I thought you said we were headed for Velos II," protested O'Brien._

"_We are," his companion agreed. "Ultimately. But I agreed to one small rendezvous along the way. This is not likely to take more than a few minutes."_

"_What are you talking about?" the engineer glanced over his shoulder, hands still hovering over the smooth, hard surface of his console._

"_Don't worry, Chief," responded Garak. "True, my former acquaintance _is _turning out to be a little more anxious than anticipated. But we're as unlikely to be noticed here as anywhere else. More so. This facility has been abandoned for generations, and believe me. You will want to meet this man."_

_Good thing that Starfleet runabouts are as small as they are_, O'Brien supposed. If the Jem'Hadar or Cardassians had managed to get within sensor range, they would have almost certainly have been detected. But they had passed the border with barely a scratch, just as Garak had suggested, by dodging and hiding and keeping to the most difficult routes - that few sane pilots would ever think to take. And, O'Brien was only too glad to admit, by being too insignificant to notice.

"Are you alone?" A deep voice sounded from the shadows.

O'Brien frowned, with a sidelong glance at his companion. But the voice of this stranger had elicited no change in Garak's expression.

The station's resident tailor stepped forward. "Quite alone."

"Good."

There was movement, something falling, and then a crash as hard surfaces collided, and the unknown object landed, bounced once, and came to settle within easy reach of O'Brien's feet. He crouched to pick up a narrow Cardassian padd.

"The schematics you requested," said the same detached voice. "Your friend is being held in the Southern wing of the larger of two neighbouring complexes. Everything you need to know is indicated on that padd in the Human's hand, and I have included the access codes you will need to get inside. This ought to be enough information for your use. What you choose to do with it is entirely for you to decide."

There was a pause as O'Brien studied the padd, noting that the unseen stranger had spoken the truth. He flicked through a series of brightly lit images, showing corridors and passageways, and clear outlines to mark the shapes of rooms. The same deep voice was first to break their silence. "I believe this takes care of any outstanding obligations."

Garak took the padd from O'Brien, and took a moment to browse its contents himself. "Almost," he agreed.

"Almost?" the voice repeated. "And what is _that _supposed to mean?"

Now a figure was shifting forward, making itself seen. The man who met them was taller than any Cardassian O'Brien had encountered, and so wide across the shoulders that even the scales running along either side of his neck were noticeably oversized. "Look here. We had a deal."

"Certainly, it's most gratifying to hear that you have not forgotten." Garak's response was coupled with a deliberate smile. Not one muscle - it seemed - had shifted beyond its intended position. "However, my next question, Mr Dora'el, is how much use you might still be in facilitating our access."

"Now, wait--" protested the heavy-set glinn. "My debt to you was paid in full when I told you the location of…"

Garak's forward motion was so slight that Miles was surprised to have noticed it at all. But if it had ever been possible for a Cardassian face to turn any greyer, then that was undeniably what Dora'el's had done.

"_Are _you able to get us inside, or not?" Garak asked again.

"It… It won't be easy," stammered Dora'el. "The Dominion controls every entry point. As for those Jem'Hadar, they're like raptors guarding a corpse. You could get past them, but then…"

"Well then," Garak replied, a little too cheerfully for O'Brien's comfort. "I never really had much use for easy measures. Did you, Chief?"

The tailor's quietly patient smile remained, inviting an answer. The Chief obliged. "Not much."

And now they were both turned simultaneously to stare at Dora'el.

"Suicide missions were never part of our agreement," the giant protested.

"Call this a revised agreement."

What was it about Garak's voice, O'Brien wondered, that always seemed to leave so little room for dissention? Neither he nor his exiled companion were tall enough to reach beyond Dora'el's chest, but the larger Cardassian was visibly pale.

"Twenty minutes, then," he told them. "There are several things I must see to first. Meet me back here, and don't be late. I will not wait forever."

* * *

"Casualty reports," Corinna whispered, clutching both elbows as she gazed at the wall. Multiple columns were set into its surface, each one even taller than she was, like a forest of straight-backed trees. Brightly coloured, almost gaudy in their intense shade of yellow. She held her breath, searching to pinpoint a specific point along the wall, and finally released it in a long, steady sigh. Julian's name was not on the list.

_Not that it means anything_, she reminded herself.

"The captain puts these up every Friday," said a voice at her shoulder.

Corinna turned around. "I know."

It was a young woman, with the clearest blue eyes that she had seen in years, and with gleaming dark hair gathered to a silver clip at the back of her head. Her voice had been subdued, fringed with a subtle whisper.

"Commander Dax?" guessed Corinna.

"Jadzia Dax - that's right." The pale-skinned woman smiled, and offered a hand for her to shake. "I see you've heard of me. Then I assume you would have heard of my husband too."

The woman's husband had approached like an advancing shadow, and now stood passively at Dax's side. His distinctive brown eyes appeared to glare, even when his expression was neutral. He was taller even than Dax, broad across the shoulders and chest, and with a forehead marked by the rough, hard texture of Klingon ridges.

"Worf." His wife positioned herself in the easiest place for an introduction. "This is…"

"…Corinna Anderson," the Human finished for Jadzia.

"Julian's… cousin? I believe that's what Benjamin told me?"

_Benjamin_? thought Corinna, a moment before she recalled the captain's name. But the question in her companions' eyes still appeared to demand an answer. She nodded belatedly.

"So." Dax grinned. "You _are _related. I can certainly see the resemblance. And I'll bet he's told you all about this place before you even set foot inside."

Corinna shifted, feeling oddly self conscious. "It's true he did mention you… _Both_," she hastened to add, with a fretful glance at the still scowling Klingon. "…Once or twice."

Dax's smile grew tight, as though she was holding back a chuckle at her husband's expense. Worf scowled and moved away, but when the unusually confident woman turned to face Corinna again, her smile had disappeared. "He'll be all right," she promised quietly.

"I hope so." The weight upon Corinna's chest returned, although she doubted it had ever really gone. She looked away. "But there was something… He was about to tell me something important. I only… I wish I knew what it was."

"I'll tell you this much," insisted Jadzia. "After three hundred years, you get to know who are the survivors in this galaxy. And that cousin of yours, he's one."

"You believe that?" asked Corinna.

Somehow, Dax's answering smile came as a subtle comfort. "He's my friend," she said. "I have to believe it."

_And so do I_, Corinna resolved.

"Has anyone offered you the grand tour yet?" The other woman glanced around her, stepping forward conspiratorially.

"Er… Not really." Corinna shook her head, glancing sadly at the illuminated wall. "The truth is, I'm not staying."

Dax cocked her head just a fraction. "Why not?"

"My family," replied Corinna. "They need me at home, and there's no place for me here. I never should have come in the first place."

"But if I know Julian," Dax said, the sadness returning behind her smile. "He would have appreciated having you along."

_Do we really have to talk this way_? _Already, as if he's gone for good_?

Both women started to walk away together. But the distance grew long and heavy between them, extending with the passing of every moment.

"Before you leave," Dax told Corinna, finally breaking their silence when they finally reached the room's near end. "At least join us for lunch."

"Are you sure?"

"You'd be very welcome."

"I don't really know if I…"

"Try," said Dax as her stony husband strode on ahead of them. "It has to be better than eating alone."

A small, weary smile returned to her companion's face. "Thank you."

But then one line of tiny symbols passed her abruptly at the edge of her vision. A name. Corinna's smile disappeared as she turned directly towards it, and stared. Words had been known to change with a second glance. "Oh God," she whispered.

Dax stepped closer. "What is it?"

But Corinna gave no answer - couldn't answer. No amount of willpower could erase those shapes from the list before her, or change what they so clearly meant. She reached forward, not quite far enough to make contact with the smooth surface of the wall, but dropped her hand and finally turned to walk away.


	16. 08

Jake Sisko found Corinna on the upper level of the Promenade, staring through one of the elongated portals that lined its outer wall, to the pinpoint speckles of darkness beyond. His first impulse was to hesitate, noting how similar this woman's stance was to that of Major Kira, the last time he'd seen her at the same dark window. Both had a near identical slim, elastic build - supple and assured - and even the tilt of her head was an almost perfect match.

If they had not already met, Jake supposed, he might even have paused to create a story to explain the melancholy expression in her eyes. A jilted lover, perhaps. Whose long time companion had left her with unintended assurances of his return, having to escape the Orion Syndicate or some equally nefarious confederation.

Maybe he had betrayed them somehow, and now the woman at the viewing port - or at least the character in this imagined tale - had discovered the tangle of events and deceptions, and was expecting those same vengeful bandits to come after her…

_Hey_, thought Jake. _That's not bad_.

But he held back this stream of ideas before they could carry him any further, setting it aside for future reference. Corinna turned to watch his approach.

"The wormhole's that way," Jake told her and nodded in what he supposed was the right direction. "You won't see it open, though. I don't know exactly how it's meant to work, but according to what my dad says, the aliens inside won't let any ships come through from the other side."

"You really respect your father, don't you?" said Corinna, and coughed away a sort, choking sound behind her voice.

Jake nodded. "I guess I do." His own response was equally muted. "But then - he's that kind of guy. I don't know that it's possible _not _to respect him."

For a moment, Corinna looked his way. There was something peculiarly familiar about her eyes, something about the way she studied the younger man's face - as if it was the doctor looking his way, and not some stranger he'd only just met.

_Then she really _is _related to Doctor Bashir_, he found himself thinking, as Corinna's wandering gaze turned back towards the window.

"Which way is Earth?" she asked.

Jake Sisko glanced around him. "There." He pointed, and frowned to himself. "…I think."

Mirroring his thoughtful frown, Corinna stepped back to follow the direction of his gaze. She seemed to be staring past the outer bulkheads, past all those light-years of space, to whatever part of the planet she had dreamed of calling home. "Jake." Her eyes sparkled moistly with the light reflected from their surface. "Toran Kwan is dead."

The young man blinked. Whatever certainty he'd gained from talking to Doctor Bashir's tall - and admittedly attractive - cousin fell away as if the carpeted balcony had crumbled beneath him.

"The _Darwin _was destroyed this morning." Corinna sighed, and Jake saw the tears still gathering in her eyes. "No survivors."

Opening his mouth, Jake Sisko tried to speak. But what would he have said? What would all those people have thought, if he could see him now - a writer, lost for words?

Reaching forward, Corinna pressed an open hand against the youth's upper arm. It was strange, Jake thought, just how easily this woman was able to establish a connection with people she'd barely met. For a moment, each pair of dark brown eyes looked into the other, and then they both turned to stare back at the distant stars.

There were no crowds on the Promenade that day, little to disturb their reverie except for the imagined ghosts that drifted beyond the outer forcefield. Kwan's ghost, Doctor Bashir's ghost, and so many other eternal wanderers searching for a place to rest.

* * *

"Is he even coming?" Miles whispered, although far from sure what it was about this place that had caused him so instinctively to drop his voice. Was it an illusion, owing to the poor light and the amplified pounding of his own heart, or was it that they had been waiting so long as the silence and anticipation seemed to double with every minute? Or perhaps it was the augmented echoes of every sound, coming from the far away metal attachments above him.

"He'll come." At least Garak's reply carried no sign of uncertainty, although O'Brien still imagined that there was a subtle hint of impatience. He was even more doubtful of how to feel about the confidence of his companion.

"How can you be sure?" There were so many possible outcomes, a chorus of anxieties crowding his thoughts until they threatened to overwhelm him. Like a thousand voices together - but with each one singing an entirely different tune.

If the Cardassian's expression had changed at all, it did not show in the poorly defined outline of his face. "I'm sure."

O'Brien suppressed the crawling discomfort in his belly - along with a near irrepressible urge to squirm like an impatient child. "Just what is it Dora'el owes you for, anyway?"

"I helped him out with a minor crisis once," Garak replied, again with that cryptic gleam in the tailor's eyes, that lighthearted half smile that spoke of so much more than he would ever admit. "It's a long story. Scarcely worth telling. Some business involving his niece's wedding gown."

"And, let me guess. He was grateful."

"He certainly promised me so."

Dora'el's padd remained in O'Brien's hand, the touch of its corners pressing sharply into his palm as though to burrow right through. He could feel the breath of an imagined army behind him, almost like the host of ghouls his elderly great grandfather used to tell stories about. But now, especially with the continued deprivation of light to even the nearest corners, whatever shapes he did make out were every bit as insubstantial. How could he ever tell, even if there _were _disruptors aimed at his back by steady, unseen hands?

_It's got to be well past twenty minutes by now_, he thought with frustration, and returned his attention to Garak. "I thought you Cardassians prided yourselves on punctuality."

"And so we do," came the deep and once more disembodied voice of Glinn Dora'el. Just as before, the giant appeared first as an ill-lit shape, and finally as the same imposing soldier they'd found at their previous rendezvous. "We honour our debts in Cardassia, Chief O'Brien."

_Could've fooled me_. O'Brien's lips secretly moved in time to his thoughts, but he chose not to acknowledge the uneasy realisation that the bulky glinn had somehow learnt his name.

A passing light reflected from a ring of metal in the Cardassian's huge fingers. "For you." He tossed it to O'Brien.

The Chief felt a mild pain of impact as his hands closed around the awkward, sharp object that arched towards them. He looked up, frowning, with a nagging residue of disbelief. "Restraints?"

"Surely you weren't thinking we can simply beam through the walls, or walk right in through the front door with no explanation whatever?" The derision in Dora'el's challenge was clear. He smiled with just one side of his mouth, making the rest of his broad, grey face even more lopsided than it had been before.

"If anyone asks," he continued. "You're our prisoner. Captured in a border skirmish just outside of Outpost 47. I doubt you'll be doing a lot of the talking, but we'll all get much further if we all agree on an appropriate cover story. I've also taken the liberty to reconfigure the locking mechanism. It ought to be easy enough to override, especially for two such accomplished men as yourselves."

"Doesn't sound like much of a plan." This time, O'Brien could not prevent himself from muttering his objections aloud.

"Perhaps not," replied the glinn. "But it all comes down to a very limited range of options. Either you come up with something better, or we turn away now and forget the whole enterprise. _Or_, you care enough about this friend of yours to trust in my ability to get you into the holding facilities. I have neither the time nor the patience for any unnecessary indecision, so you'd better tell me now. And be definite about your answer. Which is it to be?"

* * *

Time passed in a haze, moments melting together like drops of water on a transparent pane. A day? A week? Perhaps even longer. There were questions, dimly understood voices, and something that sounded like a mumbled reply. The man in front of him might even had said a name, but little of what he heard remained in his memory.

"I don't know," he whispered, again and again. Shards of melody drifted through every silence - fragments of a song his grandmother used to sing. Until even this was diluted and faded from his reach like wisps of thin, white steam. Sweet and enticing, its absence left a hollow ache at his very centre, to stand in chorus with all the others.

They injected him with painful chemicals, carried him back and forth to continue their relentless interrogations, and finally pushed him into a corner like a dirty, disposable rag. Perhaps he was giving them answers. Perhaps he had protested. Even as he hung onto a vague perception of speech, he did not know what words he could have said with his eyes already closed and his mouth too numb and dry to move.

"I don't know. I don't…"

In the shapeless, retreating memories, there were others he could not be rid of. There was a moment when something was forced into his mouth, until he choked and spluttered so that his captors were forced to press their hands against his jaw - giving him no choice but to swallow.

There was no forgetting the foul, gelatinous "rations" of Internment Camp 371. They settled uneasily inside him even now, soft, restless, and horribly familiar. He was glad to feel the world receding, tired of this limbo between awareness and oblivion, of barely sensing the Cardassians' questions any more than he did his own robotic half-replies.

"Stop…" he gasped, as a sudden energy shock surged into his side. Head jerking backwards to collide with the wall, he cringed and shielded his face.

There was a pause. Voices, arguing. And finally, he was aware that they had stopped and a hand was set upon his shoulder. The sickly-pale face of a Vorta, whose name he felt he should have recalled, was taking up every part of what remained of his visual field.

"I have something important to tell you." Was that someone speaking to him, or simply his imagination? "About the female Human. The one who accompanied you from Earth."

The prisoner raised his head, a movement so slight it was barely noticeable, but still he had to force his way through the dizziness that resulted. "Corinna?"

No voice escaped through his numb, cracked lips, even as they worked to shape a recognisable word.

"I'm afraid the news isn't good," the same distant captor reminded him. "The Cardassians are insisting that she is of no use to us. They've already scheduled an execution. Two days."

_No. You can't._

"Just like you," said the voice. "The female never left us either. But if you would only tell us what we need to know, and perhaps I can persuade our allies to allow you both safe passage from this place. _Think _about it. You can help her."

"But I…" He spoke with difficulty. _I don't know anything_.

"If you do not co-operate, your cousin will die." The Vorta was close now, whispering in his ear, every syllable as intense as those that had preceded it. "Think of the children, Julian."

_Meg. Tessa_… They couldn't grow up without a mother. Thoughts of Corinna - of how kind she had been to him and his family - made his stomach tighten still further. And how would he repay her, by leading her to her ultimate end? If only there was something he could say, or do. If only the horrible muck inside him would settle, or leave his stomach - just as it was threatening to do.

"You see?" Seeing the change in their prisoner's expression, Vorta spoke again, but this time to someone else beyond his view. "All that is needed is to find the right motivations. And now, he will answer everything we ask. Won't you, Doctor?"

_There's nothing I can say. There's nothing to tell_. Colours and sounds blended together, all fading into the distant shadows. But only one word could escape through his lips. "Please…"

"So much for your 'motivations'." It was the voice of his first interrogator, sounding irritable, impatient - but also oddly resigned. "Now perhaps you'll believe us when we _say _we've tried everything."

"Then there must be only one conclusion left to us," said the Vorta. "He really doesn't know."

_Finally_, was the final afterthought of their Human prisoner. _They believe you_. And finally, the Dominion would allow it all to end.


	17. Part Three: HEART

**Thicker Than Water**

* * *

**Part Three**

**HEART**

* * *

The scene drifted in and out of focus, like a palm torch with the power cells too low. A soft groan reached the young man's ears - possibly his own voice, although even this sensation was as peculiarly disconnected as every other. There was something else - the footfalls of two heavy men. One dragged him forward with hands hooked painfully beneath his upper arms, just as the other gripped his ankles. His attempts at resistance were feeble, useless. Didn't even raise a comment. His head dropped back, too weak to hold up, with the darkness returning again to his world.

Cold floor beneath him. Dark, hard, and semi-metallic. His face hurt along one side, he discovered gradually. Especially around his lower cheek and jaw. One arm was positioned awkwardly beneath his torso, bereft of any sensation but pain, when he tried to shift his blood-deprived limbs across the rough stone. Judging from the distribution of pressure across his body, the soldiers had shown little care when they threw him unceremoniously onto his stomach. He was still weak - nauseous. And he was shivering.

Opening his eyes as far as they would go, he forced them to look up at the two barely distinguished shapes nearby.

"If he lives," the Cardassian growled derisively, "Let him."

"He will not." His Jem'Hadar companion looked down, the chill of his expression showing little hint that it would matter either way.

Bashir grunted as one of his captors' heavy black boots connected squarely with his lower ribs, and curled both arms around his face, shuddering against the sudden, all-over pain.

"Pathetic Human," said the Jem'Hadar. As the object of their scorn struggled to find them through half closed eyes, the pair turned their backs, and disappeared from view.

* * *

"The Southern entrance," said Dora'el, raising a hand to hold them back. He pointed to a sharp-cornered arch set deep into the nearest high wall. "The people who designed this building wanted some part of it to be accessible from the ground - but this is the only place that is. If I'm right, there should never be more than three men posted outside at any one time."

"Three?" hissed O'Brien. He stared, chest tight, at where the apparent impenetrability of the steep outer walls already seemed to mock him, and wondered why the dark, swirling clouds in the sky of Velos II had not heated enough for flashes of electrical discharge to appear at the edges. Especially now, with the salty layer of sweat already beading across his brow. Lightening would most certainly have been appropriate, given the over all mood.

Dora'el glared, opening his mouth with the beginnings of a response.

"So." Garak interrupted whatever scathing reply might once have been forthcoming. The tone of his voice was forceful, even with the conspiratorial whisper that prevented it from carrying any further than he intended it to. "This is the way in. I only hope there's a way out."

"How you get out is for _you _to decide. But yes, this is where we enter."

O'Brien squirmed invisibly. Even now, he sensed the pressure of manacles already clamped around his wrists, a slight dull pain where the corners chaffed against them.

He'd already tested every detail of the operating mechanism - enough to be sure that the restraints would fall away with relative ease as soon as he required them to. The fault in the lock was subtle enough that a casual observer would never come close to detecting it. Not without a far more thorough examination than he intended to give them a chance to make. But even this knowledge did little to ease the notion that his heart would soon leap up and outward through his throat.

"If you're wishing for a chance to turn back," said Dora'el. "Take it now. You will not have another."

O'Brien shook his head. "You're right," he responded, rising from his low crouch and pausing to allow the circulation back into his legs. "We won't. Let's go."

This was not the first role he'd played for the sake of a mission. He'd been proud of the performance that he and Kira had managed, that day on Cardassia IV. If that performance had gotten them successfully into one dusty old prison, then surely he could be convincing enough now to get himself and his companions into another.

And this time he was lucky in one respect. His performance didn't call for any more elaborate theatrics. _Thank God_. He could shape it around the automatic trepidation he already felt, which swelled with every step they took towards the high, forbidding edifice. There would be no real test of his resolution. Not until they got inside.

_If _they got inside, he forced a reminder. But certainly, if there was anyone in whose skill at deception he could trust, it had to be Garak and Dora'el. Shaping his own face into the anxious but stoic scowl of a recent captive, O'Brien allowed them to flank him on either side, and marched down the rocky, winding path towards the entrance.

They were scarcely half way before he saw the sentries stiffen visibly at the gate. Two aimed their weapons.

"What is this?" demanded the only one remaining with his rifle still lowered at his side.

"A gift for the Founders," responded Dora'el. "A token from the Cardassian Empire, of the continued good faith we place in our mutual alliance."

Garak picked up on the cue. "A shame that you couldn't have been there to see our glorious victory. It was a great moment for Cardassia. And the Dominion, of course. This is only one of several Federation prisoners taken from our recapture of the outpost on…"

"The Founders would not be interested in one insignificant Human," insisted the guard as he readjusted his double-handed grip upon the rifle.

"How intriguing," commented Garak. "It never occurred to me to second guess what would interest the Founders. I'm surprised that _you _would…"

"We were told nothing of any new prisoners." Stepping forward, the guard reached up to grab O'Brien tightly by his chin. The Chief stifled a wince as his face was jerked first to one side, and then the other.

He jumped back, startled by the blast of energy that knocked the Jem'Hadar back against the wall. As the soldier collapsed in the nearest corner like a stone-laden sack, two more beams dispatched both of the other watching guards. Miles span around to where Dora'el still held a Cardassian disruptor in one steady hand. But the thick-set glinn said nothing as he slipped the same weapon back into its holster.

"You don't say," O'Brien retorted, scarcely glancing down as the trio proceeded into the complex beyond.

As soon as they passed the threshold, he twisted both wrists until the fake restraints came apart and dropped into his hands. He passed them back to Dora'el, who tucked them into a specially fashioned clasp upon his belt and handed the Chief a surplus disruptor.

"Bit on the uncomfortable side," muttered O'Brien, rubbing the ache from his wrists as he followed the others along the curve of the inner wall - every step drawing them deeper inside.

"What would you rather?" snarled Dora'el from one corner of his mouth. "Gold pressed latinum lined with velvet?"

"There _is _something to be said for occasional accessorising." Garak's attempt at humour earned him a dark scowl from the giant, which he gleefully ignored. "But in this case - perhaps not."

Darkness provided something of a relief to O'Brien's agitated nerves, although he still doubted the truth of whatever supposed comfort he could gather. The corridor was granite-black, but with a rough matte cast which veiled all but the sharpest of reflections. His companions moved with confident stealth, which he wished that he could have shared. He marvelled again at how much Garak especially had been revitalised by the added thrill of danger.

_Which is probably not such a bad thing_, he reminded himself - but needed little reminder that all of them would have to stay alert. They had been lucky thus far, especially as only occasional Dominion troops had passed their way. These had spared no more than a cursory glimpse into whatever shadows and corners the trio had impulsive chosen to hide in. But O'Brien was no more a fool than either of the Cardassians. Those patrols of two or three would no doubt grow more numerous - and harder to avoid - the further inward they managed to get.

Glinn Dora'el beckoned silently at an upcoming T-Junction, leading them right around one of the more acute corners. O'Brien slowed just a little until he was level with the tailor, Garak.

"Can we trust him?" Miles whispered, with an obvious rear view of the glinn's broad torso.

"As much as I have ever trusted anyone."

"Not a lot then," the Chief muttered under his breath. Turning his head just slightly to the right, Garak smiled and nodded congenially. The overhead lighting deepened the shadows of his eyes and the arrangement of scales and ridges around his face and neck.

"Glinn Dora'el is not accustomed to being so obliging. However, in this case, I would guess he is strongly motivated."

"Motivated by what, exactly?"

"Self preservation," grumbled Dora'el, with a meaningful backward glance at Elim Garak.

O'Brien wondered if he had not heard the tailor chuckle.

"All right, then," he whispered, ignoring the sudden, dry ache at the back of his throat. "I have another question. If Security in this place is as good as the Dominion would claim, why haven't we been intercepted before now?"

A pair of steady blue eyes stared back at him, as both of his Cardassian comrades slowed to a stop. "Unfortunately, Chief, that is a better question than even you may have imagined it to be."

O'Brien reacted instantly to the flash of weapon-fire behind him, feeling the air sizzle around his ears, and a surge of adrenaline when he saw the flare of sparks on the chest of the lead Jem'Hadar. The soldier's next shot was wider than his first, as he fell back in a burst of sharp light. O'Brien gasped, realising only a moment later that it was his own disruptor that had pierced the soldier's armour and rough, pebbled hide.

"This way!" shouted Dora'el. Scarcely glancing at the dead Jem'Hadar, he urged them all to a swift trot. But even then, a shimmer of air preceded them, another shadow revealing itself only four or five metres away.

Miles could not see which of his companions had fired. Their second adversary was just as quickly felled, but not before he had discharged the weapon still clasped in his hands. With a cry, Miles O'Brien staggered, and fell against the wall, a painful surge of energy like a blade across his forearm. He closed his eyes, shuddering through the worst of the pain and clutching his arm where it still smoked from the heat of the Jem'Hadar's disruptor.

More weapons fired around him, some close enough for him to feel their heat. He tried to look through tearful eyes, shooting down the corridor at the dark, ill defined shapes, aware only that they were still coming at him from either side. Bodies were falling. Something stank. Another cry sounded, deeper than the others. One more humanoid died, and another hit the ground close by. But the sounds were growing quieter - already scarce. Holding back another loud cry, O'Brien clenched every muscle of his face, and slid into a crouch upon the floor.

A hand pressed down upon his shoulder.

_I'm all right_. Tears streamed from his eyes, but O'Brien nodded to Garak, allowing the tailor to haul him into a shallow alcove at one side of the passage.

He tripped over something, and cast his gaze towards the heavy man who now lay face-down across his path. "Dora'el."

"He's dead," said Garak, and nodded to the scattering of Jem'Hadar bodies. "But this is no time to linger. I promise you, there _will _be more."

They kept to the edge of the newly discovered, elongated corridor, tucking disruptors back into both of their belts. With hands free, O'Brien flinched as he pulled back the sleeve of his jersey. He grimaced at the sight of the liquid-covered, blackened, and glistening skin as much as from the stabbing pain of contact with the slight, recycled breeze.

_But you can sort that out later, yeah_? Impossible as it was to ignore, he still had a mission to accomplish. And anyway, he'd been through much worse in his time - but that didn't stop him from wishing that there was some loose clean cloth he might be able to wrap around the wound.

_No time for that_, he insisted to himself, with a final glance behind him. _And you still have a _reason_ for being here_. _Remember_? Dora'el's remains were still visible, along with those of the men who had killed him - although now already distant and even more obscured by shadow.

But the glinn was easily recognisable enough to prompt a brief but queasy shudder. O'Brien was just as unable to decide whether he was turning toward his companion, or away from the carnage behind him. "Do you still have that map of the complex?"

They had arrived at another intersection, where Garak span around in response to the Chief's hushed query. "Of course." Hesitating only briefly, he pointed to the left. "And if I remember correctly, we ought to be heading… _that _way."

O'Brien stared, momentarily dumbfounded. "Are you telling me you memorised the entire layout of this building?"

The Cardassian smirked. "It seemed a useful way to pass the time - and besides, somebody had to make sure that our oversized friend wouldn't lead us astray. It wasn't a particularly difficult undertaking. I've seen more complicated embroidery patterns."

"Sure," muttered O'Brien.

He was more surprised at the twinge of envy, just as yet another corridor extended before them. It would have to look much different to a man who already knew his way around. And, he added, hoping for a moment that his thoughts would not show, to someone whose progress wasn't hampered by the searing agony of burns across his skin. Even as its sharper edges had begun to dull, Miles already found it difficult to pretend that the pain was not making him giddy.

"Thirty fifth door on the right…" Garak mumbled through his teeth. He ducked again behind another alcove, and pointed to a distant opening, pulling the map out to confirm his point of reference. "There."

Miles glanced to the same heavy door, and his frown deepened to a series of well-marked lines. It was closed - a dark, metallic barrier blocking their view of everything beyond. An intersecting network of geometric ridges divided its surface, and a panel of illuminated controls had been set into one side. "It's still too easy," he told Garak, the same whispered doubt that had plagued him since their first approach.

"A pertinent observation, Chief." The other man gave no hint of what effect - if any - the Chief's blunt comment could have made.

O'Brien tried again. "Garak. It has to be another trap."

"Perhaps." The Cardassian's voice was unusually serious, enough to silence O'Brien's continued protests. "But you must know as well as anyone. We have to take our chance."


	18. O2

Again with Dora'el's padd as a guide, Garak's fingers danced across the locking controls in a fluent, practiced motion as he sought the access codes to open the holding cell door.

_Dare I even ask_…? wondered O'Brien. But after all the long and dangerous missions they'd taken together while the Dominion had forced them away from their home, he had learnt far too much to be surprised by Elim Garak's range of unexplained skills. And certainly he was too experienced by now to expect a straight answer, even if he were to attempt to get one.

"_Got it_." With a triumphant hiss, Garak stepped back at the sound of the door giving way.

O'Brien glanced nervously over one shoulder at the empty silence of the corridor. _Still no-one_, he thought - and discovered that he was muttering to himself. "No. That's not _right_…"

No-one seemed to have been alerted by the offensively painful noise of reverberating metal as the heavy door struggled to open. Breathing shallowly through his teeth - one hand twisted into a claw against his chest - he reached down with the other to retrieve the extra combadge he'd concealed inside his uniform pocket. He quietly renewed his most determined vow. There would not be any escape for himself or his companion - not until he had a chance to locate Julian. Not until he had gotten close enough to use the tiny device to get him out as well.

Light was even more scarce at the other side of the door, spilling dimly from the corridor behind them. O'Brien leaned against one side of the entrance. But his eyes were quick to adjust, even to this blanket of darkness. Deep, black obscurity gradually took on a form, lines solidifying into better view. It was a larger space than he had expected, dominated by floor to ceiling stacks of semi-reflective crates of grey and brown. Disappointment pressed immediately downward like a weight upon his heart.

"Storage containers?"

"That's not what's written on this padd," confirmed Garak. "But I wouldn't leap to any premature conclusions."

He glanced briefly at the miniature screen in his hand, and finally back to the dim interior.

"What?" Miles demanded. "Is there something you know that I don't? Because all I see is a heap of old cargo."

"Human."

A young Cardassian - early twenties, O'Brien supposed - leapt around the containers with a disruptor raised in one barely steady hand. The man who accompanied him was smaller, and probably even younger. And this second guard was every bit as hesitant as his companion.

This one's voice trembled, words pitched involuntarily high. "You. Human. Stay where you are."

Perhaps there had been a signal, although it was difficult to say for certain that either man had given one. But there was definitely a moment when - as if by some extra sense - O'Brien and Garak reached simultaneously for the weapons in their hands, and fired.

The first guard fell back in a laser thin blade of light, arms and legs splayed ridiculously outward as he slammed into the crates behind him. The second Cardassian was quick to follow, and just as quickly dispatched, the shock of realisation in his wide, dark eyes as memorable an expression as O'Brien had ever seen.

_He's just a kid_, the engineer thought, seeing their victim's faces properly for the very first time. _They both are_.

As he stepped around Garak and over the fallen youths, Miles O'Brien was struck by another dimly recognised notion. He could scarcely say which of the pair had been felled by him.

"There must have been a reason to have these two in here." Miles stepped around for a better view. "You don't send your soldiers all this way just to guard a room full of yamok sauce."

"Unless they just happened to be hungry." Garak's response was barely half its usual volume, no louder than a whisper although without what the expected soft, breathy undertone.

Intuition was telling O'Brien not to believe that this was just another cargo bay, and experience made him every bit as certain that Garak did not believe it either. Perhaps he might have been fooled before those two young Cardassians had shown. But now?

Something was taking shape at the corner of one of the storage containers. O'Brien paused, waiting for his vision to adjust a little more. Almost by instinct - or based perhaps on no more than his final thread of hope - he called out softly. "Julian?"

_Oh, God_…

"This way!" he shouted, already banging his shins in his haste to stagger around the randomly scattered containers. Impatience rose into his voice as he shouted to Garak and then to the man he'd located as barely more than a flash of colour in the midst of the only half visible black.

"He's alive," gasped O'Brien. Carefully, he reached forward with one hand and rolled his friend over until he was facing upwards. There was a quiet slap as the back of Julian's hand made contact with the floor. A slight pulse fluttered beneath his skin, although even this was near impossible to detect. Pale, cold to the touch, with nothing but a thin, flimsy tunic to shield him… and now, to be dumped like a sack in some dusty corner of a storage bay? The Chief's sudden relief was quickly dampened by a darkening storm of anger.

"We've got to get him back to Federation space," he said - as much to distract himself from the deep, churning anger in his belly. "Everything else is secondary. He needs medical attention, and God knows I'm no doctor."

He doubled over, gritting his teeth against a string of undifferentiated curses at a flash of renewed pain from his injured arm. "Garak!" he shouted behind him, arm hugged close against his stomach. "Give me a hand over here, for crying out loud!"

"Nothing would give me greater pleasure, Chief - but I'm afraid it is not currently possible."

"What?" Forgetting the pain and fatigue of their difficult mission, O'Brien shot an incredulous glare at the face of Deep Space Nine's resident tailor. And finally, he discovered what this other man had seen.

Four Cardassian military officers stood in the doorway, every one of them with weapons trained directly on the intruders.

"Put down your weapons," said one - a woman, pale as milk, with lines of kohl accentuating her hypnotic blue eyes. "And step away with hands raised."

Garak was first to back into one tall mound of containers, and carefully bent down to set his disruptor on the floor at his feet. Feigning uncertainty, O'Brien hesitated, reacting only to a direct although subtle signal from the blue eyed female. Clutching his injured arm once more, he bent low in a half exaggerated attempt to show how little threat he presented. But there was still the badge clasped in the palm of one hand, which he transferred surreptitiously to the front of Julian's tattered tunic, even as he reached forward to let go of his own disruptor.

_It's all about distraction_, he thought, finally looking up. _Distraction, and slight of hand_… He usually enjoyed finding new ways to deceive and entertain the people around him - his friends, his wife, and especially Molly, who delighted in her father's command over the material world. It was a long time since he'd had any real contact with Keiko or the children, but he hoped these Cardassians could be as easy to distract as his daughter.

"You lured us here?" he demanded of their leader. "Why?"

The woman turned to face him directly. "From the moment you crossed the border, you were never really hidden from our sight. But does it really matter? Is our tactical reasoning really that important to you right now? Sufficed to say, we've known all along that Dora'el was a traitor. All we lacked was the evidence."

The Chief glanced back towards Julian - tasted bile at the back of his throat. "Well - then you must be mighty pleased with yourselves," he muttered. "Hip, hip, hooray. Good for you."

_Please, Garak_, he thought. _Take the hint. Keep her talking. I need more time_.

"I for one, Madam, would be fascinated to know what you expected to achieve from all this." O'Brien never imagined that he'd be so relieved to hear the voice of the one-time spy. But he did not exhale until the moment when the man's voice first reached his ears.

"Nothing," said the woman. "I serve the Founders, as does every Cardassian here."

"Oh, _please_." The conversational tone was gone from Garak's words - replaced by such obvious disgust that it could only have been genuine. "That kind of talk might work for the Jem'Hadar, or even the Vorta. But you know better, and so do I."

"One thing's for certain," said his smaller adversary, narrowing her eyes. "I know you, Elim Garak. Federation sympathiser. Exile. _Tailor_. There are a lot of people on Cardassia Prime who would love to get their hands on _you_. Tell me, what have they been feeding you on that space station of yours? Whatever it is, it's made you soft. Not to mention overweight."

At least the unnamed woman seemed to have fallen for the lengthy to and fro of Garak's ego contest. For now, O'Brien did not stop to note the following reply. He'd never doubted that poking around a tangle of miniature cross-wires, without being noticed by any of their sharp eyed witnesses, would be far more difficult with one hand than it might have been with two.

Clenching his jaw, sucking in a shallow, hissing breath, he pushed himself nearer in a mildly faltering, three-limbed shuffle. "Who'd have thought all this Cardassian bluster would ever have come in so handy?" he muttered with his secret ad hoc work upon the transmission circuits in his palm. "Hang in there, Julian. We'll get ourselves away from all this yet."

"Stay where you are!" One of the Cardassian woman's company had raised his weapon, and levelled it now directly at O'Brien. Worse - his gravelled voice had cut into the constant verbal sparring that had been previously running in the background. Silence fell heavy upon the scene, as every enemy studied the others - watching. Evaluating…

_Then it's now or never_, O'Brien told himself. He stepped back, raising his uninjured arm in a gesture of surrender, time stretching with every beat of his pounding heart, now that he found himself once more at the centre of their attention. But as long as there was a chance…

"Garak?" he whispered through his teeth.

"Yes, Chief?"

"No talking!" shouted the same heavily built guard. But O'Brien only really had one more thing he needed to say.

"Remember Empok Nor?"

The tailor's perplexed and mildly troubled frown shifted and smoothed into a mischievously knowing smile - which broadened at the looks of confusion from all four of their adversaries. They would not have the opportunity to ask, O'Brien swore to himself. Not if he was quick enough in carrying out his impromptu plan.

The flash lasted only a moment, so intense that he felt it burn the back of his eyes. He tensed, determined not to be distracted by the satisfying cry and heavy crashes Cardassians falling like rocks against the floor.

"Computer!" he shouted, but with no time to give his vision any chance to clear. "Three to transport. _Now_."

* * *

Noises. Voices. The touch of fabric all the way up against his chest, and a soft vibration all around him - sensed beneath his ears much more than heard. The fingers of one hand curled around. Like a grasping reflex played in slow motion. Voice called from above. A name. His name.

_Shout. Scream. No more questions - PLEASE_. He shied away from the touch of hands upon his shoulders, as his flailing limbs connected with something hard but yielding. Large hands clasped the circumference of his wrists, pushed them back against his chest.

"It's over." The voice he heard was rapid and urgent, but soft at the same time. "Shh. It's over. You're safe now. We're going home."

_Home…_?

_And something familiar about that hushed and steady voice. Hold on to that_. A word escaped him, a softly mumbled whisper. "Mi…?"

For now at least, his sleep would no longer give him cause for fear.

* * *

"Yeah," Miles O'Brien responded quietly, settling back against the wall of the runabout's aft compartment. "That's right. It's me."

He had been in a decidedly foul temper ever since their harried departure from the Velos II military installation. Three hours of dodging Dominion fighters had left him little time to dwell on the stew of bad feelings that had continued to simmer inside his belly. But now, he watched as Julian slipped away again, and noted how his friend's unnatural pallor accentuated the dark, hollow shadows across his eyes. Even in the depths of sleep, it was easy enough for an observant man to see that Bashir was shivering.

He turned to signs of movement by the door, where Garak had begun a tacit retreat. O'Brien supposed that he ought to have thanked his grey companion, at least for placing a sling around his damaged arm. But the taste in his mouth was still too foul to allow for these or many of his other thoughts to find escape.

"I suppose this kind of… _thing _is all in a day's work for you," he accused.

Still rubbing the side of his face as he leant against the doorway, Garak pursed his lips into a tight, thin line. "Nothing so crude, I assure you."

Anger rose inside O'Brien like an explosive plasma surge. "Spare me your lies, Garak," he growled. "I might not know the rules of whatever sick game this is. But right now, I don't _want _to know. Or are you going to be feeding the rest of us to the sharks as…?"

"Sharks?"

"Don't pretend you don't know what I mean!"

Visibly raising both sets of brow ridges and tensing his mouth until it was as narrow as it could be, Garak nodded, as though resolving something in his own mind. "If you are anxious about our friend Glinn Dora'el, I assure you that nobody regrets his loss more than I. However…"

"I said, _save _it," O'Brien snapped, and shoved past him on his way back into the cockpit.

Even when the burn of anger rose as if to choke him from within, he could scarcely picture what could possibly have been its source. He remembered a day spent scavenging through the eerie corridors of a place so like his home, and yet just subtly unfamiliar - when Garak had likened the insanity that had driven him to hunt down O'Brien's away team to a complicated game of kotra.

He was tired. Tired of being just another pawn in the same sick game, played across a board that not a single one of his friends were ever afforded a clear enough chance to see. Cardassian games, Starfleet games, and now Dominion games. It was increasingly difficult to convince himself that there had ever been a difference.

That was it, wasn't it? However badly effected Garak had been on Empok Nor, he had been right about that much. It was all about strategy. Move and countermove. And at the end of the day, O'Brien and his friends were all just puppets, manipulated to suit the arbitrary whims of more powerful forces than themselves.

It sickened him.

* * *

Bashir woke twice more in the course of what may have been a day, or possibly a night. Beams of illumination sifting through half closed eyes pierced all the way to the core of his brain, causing his head to throb like it would never cease. Every muscle ached, from the breadth of his shoulder blades, to the twisted knots at the back of his leg. A blunt pain, like the twist of a stone against his belly, pushed a terrible, acid taste into his mouth - and all the world seemed to flex and spin.

Mouth dry, he struggled to swallow, and a soft grunt from the back of his throat extended into a long and desperate moan.

"Welcome back, Doctor."

_Doctor_…? Oh, of course. In another life, a long time ago, that might have once been him. Prising his eyes open, he tensed, and blinked, and struggled to verify that the gathering shapes were really in front of him.

"Garak?" he was barely able to whisper through dry, cracked lips. The pain in his head was close to unbearable. But with time, once indistinct patterns of light and shadow came slowly into focus.

"What…?" He frowned. "What happened to your eye?"

The man at his side reached up to touch the area of his face where one set of eyebrow ridges appeared to have swelled and darkened to a patchy blend of red and indigo. "My eye? Ah. Yes. Let's just say that some people still know how to pull their punches."

Catching the meaning behind his friend's response, a wave of horror swept through Julian's blood. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean…"

"I'm not criticising," the other man was quick to reply. "In fact, I appreciate knowing that somebody around here can keep me on my toes. Next time, I shall learn to duck."

Bashir swallowed queasily. For the first time, his gaze shifted to the nearby walls. "But… A runabout?"

"It's as I said. We're on our way home. True - there were some minor disagreements with a Jem'Hadar ship or two, but they seem to be leaving us alone for the moment. And you should probably rest some more. Just leave it to the Chief and I to get us out of any trouble."

_No. Don't. Don't go_.

"Chief…? Was he here?"

"When you treated us to that rather spectacular pugilistic display?" Garak nodded. "Yes - I believe he was."

But then the Cardassian's expression changed. When he spoke, his voice was barely a degree above silence. "Might I inquire--" he ventured. "What happened to you in that place?"

_What are you_…? Bashir hesitated, once more fighting to bring his voice to the surface. "I don't remember."

There was a pause. "You've grown quite well practiced in the art of falsehood," commented the middle-aged Cardassian, sounding vaguely impressed. He leaned in closer. "But not _that_ well."

_Oh, God - no. Of all the things he could have… Why that_?

Reaching up, Julian pressed both arms as hard as he could against his own face, and noticed only then that his hands still trembled. He clenched them into fists, tensing every muscle against an urge to cry out, to beat the walls around him. What was Garak there for anyway? Come to stare? To gloat? To tell him what a fool he was, for having believed that there was any good to be found in this sector of the galaxy?

"No questions," he whispered hoarsely.

Instead, there was the pressure of a hand against his shoulder. "No questions," The promise of his friend was softer than he'd ever heard it. "If that is what you wish, none of us has to say another word."


	19. O3

_"Please, Father." Closing his eyes, Julian rubbed the bridge of his nose, where the tension was most acute. "Let's not go through this again - I just… I don't have the time."_

_When he looked up again, his head still ached from the unyielding, deep-seated pressure beneath his brow. Heartbeat speeding up with what may well have been a touch of agoraphobia, he glanced around the prison facility, at the guards standing at intervals in every corner with hands folded behind their backs and feet squarely placed at the width of their shoulders._

_None of them made any move to interrupt the scattered visitors. But even with this visible "minimum security" placed as far away as they could be without leaving the room behind, Julian could not help but feel exposed. And just as certainly, there had to be surveillance equipment hidden somewhere nearby._

_And now he found his father silenced, dark eyes stormy and troubled. "Don't have time? What's that supposed to mean?"_

_Julian shook his head. "It's far too complicated to explain right now…"_

"_Too complicated." Richard Bashir's response had been quick to regain its former hard edge. "Right. I'm not smart enough to understand, is that it?"_

"_I never said that." With some effort, his son forced his own voice to drop back down until it was audibly calmer - and certainly quieter. "But please - I have to ask you something far more important."_

"_What?" The older man's expression had instantly softened, his words now noticeably, almost painfully subdued. "What is it?"_

If only that could make it easier_, Julian thought. Undivided attention was a rare commodity, especially when it came from his father - and too often diluted by distractions and schemes. Pinned by the other man's dark, unwavering stare - as surely as a bug on a display cabinet - his chest clenched against all his attempts to speak._

"_Father…" He tried again through the same tight pain in his throat. "It's about Adigeon Prime."_

* * *

It was with some unsteadiness that Bashir twisted around and gripped the edge of the bed, pressing both feet against the deck and concentrating for a moment on the steady, comforting solidity beneath him. Sighing through his nose, he pushed himself upright and tottered forward on reluctant legs. A blunt ache accompanied every step, travelling upwards through his feet and ankles. Numb and dizzy as though from an interrupted sleep, he steadied himself with one hand against the _Danube _class vessel's dividing wall.

"What's going on?"

Both his friends turned to face him, their eyes displaying a mix of open surprise and barely hidden concern. Meeting their gazes, Bashir was alarmed to find that his own voice was struggling to escape, and reached them as a nothing save for a soft, pathetic whisper.

"Nothing," the Chief was a little too quick to respond. He placed both hands on the edges of his chair as though readying himself to spring forward at the slightest incentive. "Nothing at all. And besides, what are you doing out of bed?"

"I'm fine." Julian's response was also quicker than he'd intended - more of a reaction than an answer. He tried once more to glean some information, this time with a little more tenacity. "But there's definitely something happening out there. What is it?"

Both men hesitated, exchanging a furtive glance.

"Miles." The single word - as much as complaint as it was a name - was heavy with far more than simple weary frustration.

But Garak, uncharacteristically, was more forthcoming than the sturdy engineer. "There's a Jem'Hadar patrol vessel less than five light years away," he explained. "And another two set to close on our position as soon as we make a move."

He paused, seeming only then to notice Bashir's half-questioning, half-anxious frown, and the way he had tightened his grip on the nearby wall. "Still, it doesn't look as if they're in any hurry to find us," the Cardassian added hastily. "Chief O'Brien is hopeful that we can use the gravimetric field of this asteroid belt to conceal us from their scanners. Isn't that right, Chief?"

"Yeah." O'Brien glared, dropping his voice to a fierce growl. "That's right."

_He wasn't wanting to say anything_. Julian supposed that the Chief could hardly be blamed. He might have given serious consideration to with-holding information himself, had he been in that same position.

He'd been only marginally aware of the last time they had spoken, just enough to notice the narrow bandage fashioned around O'Brien's left arm - which he was quick to note was still in place. He vaguely recalled making some mumbled comment, drifting part way between sleep and wakefulness, and with little way to tell how much sense his responses had made to the Chief.

"Then… they're coming for us?" he gasped, keeping his words to the quietest possible threshold. Finally, he understood that added level of tension that had charged the air like the heat of an approaching storm. Perhaps that could also explain the sudden panic coursing outward from the centre of his chest. But then - had there ever been a time when he hadn't been afraid? Eyes closed, he swayed a little on his next step, and pondered momentarily if it was the inertial dampeners that needed adjusting - or was it him?

_Focus. There's more than enough to worry about right now_.

"You _sure _you're…" O'Brien began.

"Don't worry." Easing himself tentatively into the nearest chair, he grunted under his breath, and winced. "Just a bit sore, I suppose…"

Cautious exploration with his fingertips revealed a broad spread of bruises. He grimace, every breath purposely slow and shallow, held back by a broad pain in his chest and ribs. "Actually, _very _sore might be a more accurate term."

Even without seeing the other faces beside him, he knew that O'Brien still watched. "It'll pass," he promised, in a weak attempt at reassurance.

_They'll find us, won't they_? _Sooner or later. We're too easy to detect_… And the Dominion could just as easily abduct them as they slept. They would never even know - and their enemies would not have to fire a single shot.

He fashioned a small, thin smile - even as he was unable to keep his gaze level enough to stay connected with theirs. It shifted to the icy collection of rocks, scattered as they were across the forward screen. The runabout was settled on a rocky plain at the very edge of one dusky brown asteroid - mere metres from what looked like a high, sheer cliff of layered rock.

In the far distance, a diagonal curve of sparkling blue-white extended from the top right-hand corner to the one directly opposite, an array of cosmic debris on the screen set into a more slender image than the line of a wire frame tactical display.

And they were little closer to safety. _Not even out of Dominion space_… he secretly reminded himself. Not if Garak's assessment of their situation was to be believed. Somewhere beyond their visible field - beyond all that luminous rock and dust - the enemy still hunted them, still stalked them, and would not so much as hesitate to take them all right back to the beginning.

But, no. The Dominion would not carry them any place where they'd already been. They would go even deeper - all the way to the heart of the Cardassian Empire, and to somewhere even more heavily fortified. And just as quickly, he and the others would lose all hope of rescue or escape.

That is, if the Vorta, Founders, or even the Cardassians did not simply decide to dispose of all three of their enemies and save themselves the trouble of a lengthy incarceration.

For a moment, the muscles of his chest and throat clenched as though to choke him from within. Wrapping his arms around himself, and clenching both unsteady hands against the side of his own torso, he swallowed back a rising knot of fear, and focused on each cold, shifting, tumbling rock outside.

"We're hiding." he commented, a little breathlessly.

"That's right," O'Brien confirmed - although with a subtle touch of reluctance behind his reply.

"Even so--" Bashir startled at the sound of Garak's steady voice unexpectedly filling the space around them. "I will say one thing for our current position. At least this view is far from unpleasant."

It was a blatant attempt at distraction - sure. One met with from O'Brien's direction by a fierce and fleeting scowl. And yet, in spite of this, Julian found that he was grateful that one of them had worked up enough of a voice to speak. Garak continued, unperturbed. "Not the kind of place in which I'd choose to retire, but not entirely without merit. After all, we've managed to conceal ourselves here for a good ninety minutes at least."

"We didn't come all this way just to let ourselves be caught." There was an aura of determination surrounding the Chief's words. Not enough to strengthen their odds, but still with as great a degree of fortitude as the small group could find to hold on to.

"Well." It was Garak who broke the following lengthy silence. He rose to his feet. "As long as we're not going anywhere, I'm in the mood for something to eat."

He glanced around at the other faces. Bashir sensed the unsettled remnants of Dominion rations still held deep within his belly. "I ate before I got here," he joked distractedly, but did not fail to notice a flash of scepticism in the Cardassian tailor's unwavering blue eyes. Neither said anything further, even as Garak turned and stepped away in the direction of the runabout's single replicator.

Every small movement was causing his world to dip and spin. And Miles was still watching him, far more closely than he liked. A glance around the vessel's interior was as much to distract himself from the Chief's scrutiny as it was to discover what he might have seen. "Uh…" He braced himself again to speak, and turned his attention back to his friend.

"I can take a look at that arm for you," he offered. "If you want… After all, Garak was right. It isn't as if any one of us is particularly busy right now."

* * *

"Just a moment." Bashir twisted in his chair. "This shouldn't… uh… It shouldn't take too long. You're lucky though. The damage seems to have been reasonably superficial."

He scratched his head. "And if I remember correctly, there should be…"

With Julian still tugging at the cover, O'Brien saw him tense, and rock forward on all fours, eyes tightly closed. _Don__'__t say a word_, the Chief thought, watching the other man as he pried at the edge of a nearby panel. He struggled to suppress a frown. _If he needs to be busy_…

"Good," Bashir hissed almost to himself. Setting the panel aside, he reached into the open compartment, and came back again with one hand clasped around a hard grey medical kit. O'Brien pretended not to notice as he bowed his head, hair concealing his face when he pushed himself upright. Or the way his balance faltered a little as soon as he was on his feet.

Sitting heavily in the nearest chair, he clicked open the outer casing, but hesitated without even turning on the laser that would knit together the skin of O'Brien's arm. With the gathering of medical supplies still open on his lap, he ran the fingers of one hand all the way along his tousled hair. Whatever subtle tremor there had been had worsened visibly - and Miles was no longer able to pretend he hadn't seen.

"I'm sorry," the younger man whispered, head bowed, and in a voice that was barely a breath. "I thought I could help, but… Perhaps if…"

"Honest, Julian," O'Brien told him. "It doesn't hurt so much. And it's not like my skin won't fix itself with time."

"There's still something we can…" Quietly, his focus as intense as if he was dealing with a particularly complicated bit of tangled circuitry, Bashir lifted a hypospray from the same medkit and concentrated on programming it.

"Here," he said. "This ought to prevent infection."

"I dealt with that already," O'Brien insisted.

"And if the pain returns, you… can…"

"Julian."

Breathing heavily, Bashir made no response as the hypo slipped through his slackened fingers and clattered loudly to the floor. O'Brien picked it up.

"Honest, Julian. There's nothing so wrong with me that it can't wait." He looked down at the tattered edges of the bandage that he and Garak had hastily wrapped around his arm. How long ago? It seemed like days. "And anyway, I kind of like the colour."

Bashir just nodded, with a heavy smile. Sighing, he pointed to the aft compartment. "Perhaps you were right." His words sounded tired - as if he was struggling not to cry. "I might just… Excuse me."

He was a little unsteady on his way towards the back, but managed to smile and nod to Garak as he passed. "Doctor," responded the grey faced tailor, masking his thoughts with a congenial expression of his own.

* * *

"What do you think?" O'Brien asked as his companion reclaimed his former seat.

Garak regarded him with innocent eyes. "About what?"

Feeling the touch of annoyance seep into his reply, O'Brien glanced behind him at the place where he'd last seen Julian. "He's not telling us everything - that's for sure."

"Would you?"

"That's not what I mean," grumbled O'Brien, lips curled upwards in an irritable snarl. "There's something going on - and you know it as well as I do."

Garak paused, but for scarcely a moment. The next time he spoke, the words he chose were meticulously considered. "One thing I _do _know--" he responded, gravely. "Is that there is a time to bring them into the open - and this is not it. Whatever secrets may remain, I do not doubt that he will tell somebody. When he is ready. Whether we are the ones to discover these secret's - well, that's…"

"But we have to get back to the Federation." O'Brien's voice was tight and urgent. He glanced behind him, to be certain that he and Garak were the only ones who'd heard. He had said so before. Now he would say it again. "And quickly. I've been around long enough to know when something's up."

"I agree," commented Garak. "We can resume our former heading, straight for Federation space - as soon as it becomes an option."

He hesitated. "But right now, Chief, I'd say we have a far more immediate concern."

The Chief frowned, first at his own console, and then at the face of his companion. "What do you mean?"

Nodding at the forward view, Garak continued to stare at a double pattern of steadily advancing lights. Still distant, O'Brien noted - and with little in the way of recognisable detail. But they were certainly getting closer, and there was no mistaking that definite shade of neon-lilac.

The Cardassian's answer was pitched low, but with no clear effort to soften the sharp-edged tone. "It would appear that they have found us anyway."

And just as abruptly, he stopped. Both heads jerked around, their focus severed as surely as if by a falling blade, at a loud enough noise to make O'Brien's heart pound. "Jesus! Wha--?" he began, but there was no reason to complete his startled response.

The answer was obvious. A collision behind them of two hard surfaces, something heavy, in an uninterrupted freefall towards the runabout floor.


	20. O4

Mumbling some ill defined protest, his throat so parched that there was barely half a whisper escaping through his mouth, Bashir gathered what he could from his fragmented senses. His head hurt, and all the feeling had gone from his back. Except for cold. He could certainly feel the cold - a pulsing, icy pain spreading from the hard surface of the floor, all the way to the back of his eyes.

Memories came slowly. Of standing just two steps from the replicator, deliberately away from the others' sight, of wishing there was something he could do to calm the protests of his stomach - or clear away the advancing cobwebs from his mind.

Some part of him held onto yet another distant memory. _Perhaps_, he'd been thinking. Perhaps it might be a good idea to find some place to sit back down. Or close his eyes for just a single moment…

There was a rapid, regular beat of an open palm against one side of his face. "Come on," hissed a voice from above, urgency behind it bordering on fear. "Come _on_."

He forced his eyes to look beyond the amorphous shapes in front of them, and focus beyond the throbbing, all-over ache in his head. "I'm not about to go anywhere," he promised Chief O'Brien, working hard to keep his attention on the other man's worried face.

The Chief rocked back against his heels, visibly relaxing - although still with that uneasy tension in his smile. "You'd do anything for a bit of attention, wouldn't you?"

"I can think of better ways…" Julian gasped, breathing shallowly, cautiously. He stopped, with an effort to gather what willpower he could - and caught his breath. "Oh God. Miles. I can't…"

"Can't what?"

"I can't get up."

His voice was quiet, tense - more so from the impossible hope that no-one had detected the shade of fear behind it.

"Right then." O'Brien paused for barely a second before he reached down with a quick, decisive motion - and locked one hand around the wrist of his friend. "You know I'm not _normally _one to say I told you so, but…"

"You told me so." Bashir allowed himself to be guided to his feet, concentrating on each inward breath as for a brief, precarious moment, his vision dimmed and slowly returned.

"So. You're going to listen this time?"

Chuckling soundlessly, his answer never emerged as he reached up to touch his brow. He could feel the energy drain from him as though sucked away by the soft vibration of the deck-plates. And gradually, he was aware of a steadying hand around his shoulders, steering him in the direction of the back room. "That's really not…"

"Not another word," the Chief insisted through gritted teeth, although a hastily concealed, furtive glance around him was impossible to have missed. "_My _turn to decide what's necessary around here, thank you very much. Come on - up we go."

Without quite knowing how, Bashir realised that he was settling back onto the same small bed. _What happened to the gravity net_? he wondered sleepily. Still, he continued his protest, and squirmed against the hands that held him down. "Miles. Your arm…"

"You let me worry about that," scolded O'Brien.

"But…" A little quieter this time. Drowsier, possibly even resigned.

"Don't argue." The Chief did not loosen the downward pressure. "You're not about to win, and I'd defy you to find anyone in the galaxy more stubborn than me or Garak."

Tilting his head a fraction, Bashir sighed through his open mouth. _Something's going on_, he thought. _We're in some kind of hurry, and nobody wants you to know_. But if that was the only use he could be, then - whatever its source - he would do what he could to lessen the others' anxiety. Somehow.

"Well…" he whispered, and forced a smile. "There's Nerys, Keiko, Worf…"

"All right. You have a point there," O'Brien admitted, his voice still light although his face betrayed a degree of doubt and worry.

Julian blinked, every time a little slower than the last. "Quark…" he continued in a soft mumble.

There was a pause, followed by an incredulous squawk from just beside him. "_Quark_?!"

Eyes heavy, still closed, he smiled. "Only joking."

* * *

"Oh, right," muttered O'Brien. "If _that's_ what you think, then fine. I'll just…"

He stopped, the parallel creases deepening across his forehead. "Julian?"

Staring hard at the other man's face did nothing to produce a response. O'Brien swallowed, pushing back a twist of anxiety deep inside his stomach. And now, again, every moment was making him feel a little more distant - useless.

_Perhaps if I tried again_… He opened his mouth, already willing an answer, but said nothing.

_Or, perhaps not_.

"Chief!" came a voice from the next room. "I could really use some help from over here."

He turned towards it, momentarily torn between two equally powerful, opposing calls. But the advance of their enemies was hardly likely to have stopped. He had left Garak alone at the controls, on the understanding that he would return at the first opportunity.

_Best you can do_, he reminded himself. And maybe it was time to find a problem he could do something about. Staying only long enough to be sure that his friend was secure, O'Brien glanced behind him - but only once - and ducked quickly through the open partition.

With a sharp out-take of breath, he winced almost imperceptibly as he dropped into the vacant seat before him.

"What've we got?" he demanded of the tailor Garak.

"Two of our friends on an intercept course." Garak's response was loud, rapid, without a pause. O'Brien noted that a lock of his usually immaculate black hair had fallen over the scales of one heavy brow, leaving it in some form of mild disarray. And - even more telling to the engineer's mind - his companion gave no indication of even having noticed.

"The third one won't be far away." O'Brien felt his teeth grate against each other, softly - but painfully - with his answer.

He located the place where his gums were still just slightly pocked from the loss of one back molar. Even before his previous encounters with Cardassian hospitality, stories had long since filtered to his ears. The first had come from other veterans immediately after the border wars. And years later many of his Bajoran crewmen had not been without their own set of tales to tell. Others would only ever look away, insisting that there was nothing that they had nothing to add.

None of their claims ever needed verifying as far as he was concerned. He'd seen the proof, and more - he could feel it in his blood. Whatever he knew of Cardassians, the Dominion had to be many times worse.

He would get them back to the Federation, or they would make their last stand here. But there was no way he would ever go back to those stiff-necked Cardies, or their Dominion masters. That kind of thing would kill Julian. It would kill them all.

"How is he?" Garak asked with a single nod over his shoulder.

"Sick," replied O'Brien - but quickly amended his answer. "No. _Very _sick. We've got to get back to the Federation. And soon. That's all I can say."

"And when we do." It was Garak who interrupted his thoughts. "Those ships behind us will simply give up and turn away?"

"Of course not." Irritation bursting outwards like a firework, O'Brien glared sidelong at the ever tighter face of his companion "But unless you have a better suggestion…"

"I think we should give some serious consideration to an emergency transmission."

"I thought we agreed, no subspace messages until we reach Federation space," O'Brien reminded the Cardassian beside him. Eyes on the advancing ships, he started to work his own controls.

"Because of a belief that the Dominion would intercept our signal if we did." Garak pursed his lips - the clearest sign of anything true that O'Brien remembered ever seeing upon his face. "But I think you would agree that's a highly irrelevant concern at present."

"And other than that…"

"Run," said Garak. "That's about all we can do."

O'Brien paused, then nodded briefly as he concentrated on programming in an initial sequence of evasive manoeuvres. "So we run," he said, jaw tightening painfully. "And pray like Hell."

"Perhaps you would rather have stayed behind?" Garak challenged him.

"Excuse me but if I remember correctly it took more than one fool to agree to this fools' errand."

Garak laughed unhappily.

With a burst of power, their ship was quick to surge to warp, and O'Brien noted that the pursuing ships were also gaining speed. "Two minutes to intercept," O'Brien heard himself saying, his neck already aching from the tension. So, they'd discovered the runabout after all.

Federation space still beckoned, like some imagined finish line. But of course, he told himself. There was no magical haven beyond, where they would all find themselves instantly happy and secure, and everything would be wonderful. Garak was right. The Jem'Hadar had crossed the border already to get access to the _Ragnarok_. They were hardly about to break pursuit for the sake of a single runabout.

_One crisis at a time_.

He'd been a soldier long enough already - had more than enough practice in isolating most unproductive thoughts, and pushing them as far away as they could go. Nothing could make their doom more certain than to start to believe that they would fail.

O'Brien flinched as a stream of energy sheared the outer surface of their shields. . "We've got to be close to the border by now!"

"I believe that was it," Garak shouted back.

O'Brien shot him a sideways glance - which could well have been a stare, had it lasted just a little longer. He owed it to all of them, to set aside these overwhelming thoughts and focus on the rise of his hard, cold-edged determination.

A fleeting ache swelled and faded at the back of O'Brien's eyes with the explosive light expanded and dimmed across the screen. Garak's head jerked abruptly towards the same bright display. His mouth was open, no sound forthcoming, but words were scarcely needed. With nothing to hold it back, fire blazed outwards in glowing orange streamers until each had extended too far, too thinly, to sustain itself.

He gasped, unable to restrain his sheer amazement as the two remaining enemy ships redirected their fire at something at just a little distance from the runabout. In place of the third gigantic illuminated shape, there was now no more than debris.

"What was that?"

"There's another vessel out there." Garak's exclamation of astonished delight was every bit as loud as O'Brien's. "I'm detecting a warp signature, and if I'm not mistaken… _yes_. It's Federation."

Holding his breath, he watched the Jem'Hadar come about for another pass. Time slowed unbearably, all at once stretching and closing about him until there was nothing else in the entirety of his universe. Not the runabout, not the speckled backdrop of barely familiar stars - not even Garak watching at his side. He still felt the powerful beat of his own heart, even as he finally located the graceful, near flawless approach of a Federation ship.

"USS…" he whispered, squinting to focus on the registration. "_Destiny_."

"A fitting name," Garak agreed.

_And it's not before time_. Relief washed over O'Brien like the breaking of waves. _At last - a bit of luck_. _Just hope to God it's not premature_.

A round of weapons fire collided with the _Destiny_'s shields, revealing the bubble-like curvature in shades of illuminated blue. Miles watched the power build up and travel along the ship's saucer section until it burst forth in a steady, precisely modulated laser to cut through yet another enemy vessel.

The last remaining attack ship turned around in a tight arc, pausing like a runner at a starting gate. For a moment, the two ships faced each other - each one a predator, sizing up the enemy and taking all the time they could to study the face of their adversary. Neither paid any attention to O'Brien or Garak - and certainly not to their lone insignificant vessel.

Smooth and silent, the Dominion ship came about and sped away in a flash of light.

"What…?" He shook his head, mouth open, threatening to take away his power of speech. "What are they…? I can't believe they'd be scared away that easily."

"More likely they no longer think we're worth the bother."

"Then couldn't they have made up their minds a little earlier?" grumbled O'Brien, but redirected his attention to the lights on his console. It took him a moment to calm the storm of his thoughts enough to recognise a hail.

A steady voice emerged from an image on the screen. "Lieutenant Commander T'Parn of the Starship _Destiny_."

"Are we glad to see you!" O'Brien almost shouted to the unknown face that had appeared on the communications screen, only belatedly remembering that there was protocol to be observed. It took all the powers of concentration he could muster to curb his almost childish burst of enthusiasm.

"I am gratified." The face on the screen accompanied her response with a single deliberately raised eyebrow.

_Gratified_, Miles thought ironically. _That's pretty generous, coming from a Vulcan_. A youthful Human sitting at the helm of their bridge may even have smiled.

"What is your status, Chief O'Brien?"

The Chief jumped back, startled. "We… Hang on. How'd you…?"

Again, the same cool face stared back, challenging him. He glanced at Garak, who responded with no more than a subtle shift of his eyebrow ridges.

"We…" O'Brien shook his head, scolding himself for the momentary distraction, and glanced around the consoles, and at the sparks that still flashed in random patterns around them. "Pretty bad shape, I suppose. We're not going anywhere in a hurry."

"Do you require assistance?" continued T'Parn. "We are prepared to transport you both to safety."

One word came to his attention, above all others. "Both?"

T'Parn turned silently to the helm.

"I'm still only getting two life signs." The ensign squirmed, speaking as though to confirm an earlier assertion. O'Brien felt a surge of alarm. Two? _Oh, God. We__'__re too late_…

"Wait a minute. That can't be right." Fear turned quickly to irritation. "Trust me, Commander. There _are _three of us."

"Oh. Actually…" The slightly cherubic helmsman turned back to face his commanding officer. "He's telling the truth. There _is _another life form on board... But… It's far too unstable to risk a transport."

He turned to look behind him. O'Brien could see the young man's shoulders heaving with anxious anticipation - and he suddenly realised that he was holding his breath. Lieutenant Commander T'Parn nodded curtly, without a pause. "Very well, Ensign Nguyen," she responded.

_That's it_? thought Miles. Even a Vulcan ought to be able to muster a little more urgency than that. Shouldn't they?

The commander straightened her back until she had taken on an almost regal appearance, and the same infuriating calm. "If you would cut your engines, Mister O'Brien, we will tractor you to our shuttle bay."


	21. O5

The shimmering lights were as welcome to him now as a breath of air to a drowning man. He leapt to his feet, watching as they gathered into a series of tall, humanoid shapes before him. Behind him, Garak also turned to see.

"Look out--" The smallest of them - a thin, dark ensign with wispy clouds of ebony hair floating in a tangle around her face - reacted immediately to the sight.

"It's all right," O'Brien shouted hurriedly. "He's with me."

…_I think_. Certainly, ten years ago it had never occurred to him that he would one day be vouching for a Cardassian.

Garak gave no indication that the words had fazed him, but merely smiled like a congenial old uncle. "While I do admire your vigilance, young lady, I feel some obligation in this case to point out that Chief O'Brien is entirely correct."

The group's leader allowed no more time for continued doubts or delays. "You said there were three of you."

"In the back." O'Brien shied away from the still timid ensign as she looked down to the bandage around his wounded forearm. He pointed insistently with his other hand. "Look - forget about me. Just help our friend."

"It's all right," the tiny young woman assured him. She stayed behind in spite of O'Brien's resistance, and locked his eyes with an annoyingly stubborn gaze. "Your friend's in good hands - I promise. Now let's take a look at that."

With a frustrated sigh, O'Brien paid scan attention to her attempt to untangle the bandage that Garak had tied around his limb, but he submitted with only a little reluctance. He watched the small team make their way to the aft section, saw the doctor hesitate for only a moment, and noticed only distantly that he was frowning as well. Exchanging a glance with Garak, he discovered that the Cardassian also shared the same peculiar expression. The doctor's frown had not just shown the usual determined but merely professional concern.

_No_, he thought. _It's more than that. We're strangers to this woman - Garak and I. But not Julian. She knows him_.

The ensign glanced briefly over her shoulder, following the Chief's agitated gaze, and turned quickly back to face him.

"Really." She smiled - a practiced, deliberate expression to set wary strangers at ease. "The doctor's very good at her job. She'll do everything she can."

* * *

Benjamin Sisko did not doubt his impression that Starfleet Command had taken no pleasure from their discovery of the station's missing runabout. In the end it had been a chance encounter with a distress beacon, not any kind of comprehensive search, that had finally located O'Brien and the others. And if Starfleet's reports were to be believed, an entire starship had been diverted from its scheduled course - patrolling the outer border of the Federation. Certainly, no-one had seemed particularly happy about the circumstances of their rescue - the USS _Destiny _having to engage with no less than three Jem'Hadar ships before it was finally able to retrieve the runabout and its crew.

The Bolian commodore, whose lot it had been to deliver this news, looked positively ill - all the while insisting that the pale grimace on his face was no more than his reaction to a most dissatisfactory lunch. But his claims of indigestion were far too deliberate to be convincing. Bolians were hardly unaccustomed to eating half-stale meat. And surely this man's immune system ought to have been able to handle whatever he'd had the misfortune to have consumed.

"Are they all right?" was the first thing Sisko demanded of the commodore.

"No," the man responded. As he continued to elaborate, Sisko felt the muscles tense around his brow.

"I should prepare the _Defiant_." It was an instant, instinctive reaction, bursting forth as reflexively as he might snatch his hand away from the burn of an open flame.

"The _Defiant _isn't going anywhere, Captain." The blue-faced man answered firmly, deliberately, and with no more than a superficial display of concern. "We don't have the resources to defend your position should the Dominion choose to take advantage of your absence. Your orders are largely the same. Leave this matter to others."

_What_?! But Sisko held back his protest, pushing it to the depths of his gut before it had whatever chance it needed to emerge. Instead, he forced himself to acknowledge the commodore's order. He stepped away, pausing, seeking a better response. But just as suddenly, the sulphur-blue face of the Bolian had vanished from his view. Nothing remained in its place, save for the familiar - although relatively bland - standard UFP graphic spread across the screen.

Feeling cagey, desperate for the freedom of physical movement, he snatched his baseball from its place atop his desk and tossed it quickly from one hand to the other. His gaze passed beyond the jigsaw of transparent shapes arranged across the door of his office. None of the assorted faces at the main level of Ops were even so much as glancing back his way.

Silently, secretly, he paced the length of his desk like a captive panther in a zoo. Both hands stayed pressed against the leather of his baseball, tight enough for the stitching to leave an imprint on his skin.

Sliding back his chair, he positioned himself upon it, and paused for another deep breath through his nose. The anticipated conversation would demand a level of calm, which was more than he could bring himself to feel. "Computer…" he began, and focused on holding back his mounting agitation. As swiftly as he could, he summoned up the necessary connection.

A new face appeared on the monitor. "What is it, Ben?"

"Admiral." The reply was only half a greeting. Bill Ross stared back at him, tired blue eyes already troubled, and Sisko wondered how much of what he wanted to say had escaped the expectations of his superior.

The admiral listened attentively, without a word. But ultimately, his head was already starting to shake. Sisko found himself pleading. "Sir - I must ask you to reconsider."

"I'm afraid I can't," the admiral replied, an edge of disappointment creeping unavoidably into his voice. "Sorry, but this decision has already been made."

"There's been scarcely as much as a hint of a Dominion activity threat to our position since we re-took the station from them. Quite the opposite - they're already…"

"Captain."

It could be so infuriating, this ability the admiral had to interrupt him with a single word. Satisfied now that he at least had the captain's silence, Ross continued his same tired, but determined, speech. "Stop for a moment, and listen to what it is you're asking. You want to take the _Defiant _out on the exact same trip that has already caused three people to go missing? A mission you've already been ordered not to take in the first place. Let's say you're right, and the chance of losing the station is as minimal as you claim. That still wouldn't rule out the possibility of assault from a small-scale raiding party, or even a rogue battalion. The Dominion knows - and you know, and _I_ know - that to allow the _Defiant _away from its post would leave DS9 too vulnerable by far."

"Those are still my troops out there," the captain persisted. It was true. Even Garak had proven on several occasions to be a valuable addition to his team, and especially when the station's Starfleet personnel had been temporarily ejected from their Dominion-occupied home. "You're telling me to abandon my own troops."

"I could equally point out that your men are no longer in any danger."

"That's not what I was told," protested Sisko. "The threat to this sector has lessened significantly in recent weeks, and no-one is missing any longer. All I'm asking for is a chance to make this rendezvous."

"I'm sorry, Benjamin. The answer's still no."

These were far more decisive words than the last ones had been - enough to silence every possible remaining protest. In less time than it took to blink, the Federation emblem was back on his computer screen.

* * *

Admiral William Ross had been so incredibly tired, ever since he'd severed that subspace connection with Deep Space Nine's commanding officer. And now, barely a minute later, he leaned back against his chair, shaking his head with an exhausted sigh. "This is wrong," he said.

"Not at all." A second, much steadier voice corrected his uncertain sentiments. The speaker, who had sat only inches from sight of his last communication, placed both hands together against his chin. "What it is, is _necessary_. And we both know besides that the captain won't stay on the station either way."

"Is that what this is - reverse psychology? I think you're underestimating Benjamin Sisko."

"Am I really?" was the response. "Or are _you_?"

Ross studied the face of the other man. It made the admiral's skin crawl, to see this man adorned with the snug red undershirt and bicoloured jersey of a lieutenant commander, especially with the knowledge that his visitor had most likely never been a Starfleet officer. But in spite of the bad taste at the back of his throat, Ross did not see any choice but to concede the stranger's point. This disguise was an essential one. Any other would have rendered him far too conspicuous on the busy Starbase.

So, the admiral had pushed his personal concerns to one side, forcing himself instead to focus on the course of their uneasy dialogue. "How can you be sure?"

"I understand people," the other man promised. "Trust me. Captain Sisko can only restrain his impulses for so long. But for you to change your position so easily would only make him suspicious. Soon enough, he will leave that station behind. You can count on it."

* * *

Cautiously, the Chief flexed his hand. It was still tender - right down to the depths of his muscles. What had started as a burning agony had finally dulled, now little more than a distant, blunt edged ache. A change so gradual that he hardly noticed it until finally realising that he had experienced little pain from almost the moment he'd entered the _Destiny_'s sickbay. "I've given you a mild analgesic," the junior lieutenant - Belinda Chalmers - was telling him. "But it's going to be sore for a few days yet - so go easy on it."

But even the knowledge that he was healed did nothing to make him feel any better. The examination room was close to deserted, certainly emptier than O'Brien assumed such a place was accustomed to be. He scowled, irritated by the unceasing pastel-white illumination. Funny, he noted silently. He'd never imagined that he could one day miss the dull, semi-metallic grey and brown of Deep Space Nine.

And all the while, he had been unable to keep his gaze away from a closed partition at the far side of the divided space - semi opaque, with occasional blurred shapes moving like ghosts at the other side. Their actions were obscure to him, but he knew that it was the same medical team that had earlier beamed onto their runabout. They were still so close by - fighting for his friend.

Fighting in a way that he could not.

Lieutenant Chalmers paused with the broad-based, pulsing laser still held in one slender hand. "You know," she began as she noticed the frustration in O'Brien's eyes, the angle of his head, the tension that remained in his neck and back. "I'm willing to bet that your friend in there'll be all right. He's lucky to have had you two around."

"Yeah," the Chief muttered, a soft growl forming at the base of his throat. He didn't meet the lieutenant's eyes. "Right. Lucky."

With little thought for the visibly fading rough and thickened red marks along his arm, he glanced instead at the place where Elim Garak still waited and watched from the other end of the room. A cursory examination had revealed no cause for concern - in the Cardassian's case, at least. But still he lingered, as tight lipped and wary as ever, and O'Brien saw him tense as his focus intensified sharply on the opposite entrance.

There had been movement, unseen with O'Brien looking in the opposite direction, and heralded by the breath of a distant sliding door.

"Thanks," the Chief muttered to the young lieutenant, but was already on his feet and pushing past her. The weary doctor moved forward swiftly from the adjacent room, smoothing her hair with one hand, and reacting instantly to the question on both men's faces. Her sigh was quiet, tired, a little sad.

"Oh no…" gasped O'Brien.

"No - it's nothing like that." She responded quickly, words spilling from her like floodwater. But as quick as she had been to reassure them, she hurried to qualify her initial promise. Again, O'Brien was sure he'd heard something more than just distant, professional concern - the kind that she would show for any new patient. Uncertainty and sadness were quick to return to her eyes.

"I'd say it's touch and go from here," she told them quietly, and held back another sigh. "It's a good thing we got to him when we did. He's been hurt quite badly - and if that was all, then I wouldn't be this guarded in my prognosis. But I think the best thing is to watch, and wait. We've done everything we can, for now. It all depends on tonight."

She seemed to notice the worried glance that passed between both men. "But I will say this," she added, determinedly enough to regain their full attention. "Your friend doesn't strike me as the kind of man to give up without a fight."

O'Brien nodded, avoiding the sight of everyone around him. "You're right about that," he muttered under his breath.

* * *

Garak's assigned quarters were not as small as the fore section of the runabout had been. But the room was cold, enclosed - and decidedly lonely. He'd felt the walls press in around him from almost the first moment he'd entered. Raw, heart-clenching terror, and a cold sweat across his skin made no better by the chill in the surrounding air.

There was no real reason for him to trap himself within the boundary of his quarters. The Starfleet officers on board the _Destiny _had given no indication that they intended to hold him captive aboard their ship. But he had learnt one clear lesson from his experience in the universe: There was more than one way for a man to be a prisoner.

Certainly, these Starfleet people were not half as trusting as they were eager to have him believe. Not that he minded. Being trusted by strangers had always made him uneasy. It was a comfort, in a way, to find some degree of customary suspicion etched into their faces. Much as he had seen on Doctor Bashir's face, the very first time they'd met.

The good doctor had been the one to teach him that it was possible to get through any situation, without necessarily sacrificing oneself or one's friends along the way. And from what he recalled, it had been a lesson well learned - albeit from one of those ridiculously childish fantasies of his. Glad for a moment that there were no witnesses to his flash of nostalgia, Garak smiled at the memory. Lessons could be gleaned from the most peculiar sources, he reflected wryly. How strange that this one should have come from a Human.

_No reason to stay_… But somehow, no matter how he tried, the Cardassian could not gather enough impetus to move from his position. This was not the first time he had felt this way, not the first time he'd been so restless, so secretly unable to find the peace of sleep. He perched himself on one of those large, soft Federation sofas, clenching his hands across both knees, and looked around him. It was going to be a long night, spent doing nothing but sitting, and thinking. Perhaps he ought to step into the corridor - at the very least, find himself some company.

There might even be a chance… He had yet to convince Chief O'Brien to join him for a round or two of kotra. A brief diversion, just to pass the time. O'Brien had seemed as much in need of a distraction as he was.

_Or not_.

Sighing, he lifted an appallingly ugly Andorian sculpture from its place atop the nearest table, turned it around in his hands, and set it back upon the hard, sterile surface. He leaned back, staring into the shadows, and braced himself for what he knew would be a very long night.


	22. O6

"There was an old lady who swallowed a spider…"

…_That wriggled and jiggled and tickled inside her_. Sisko finished the remainder of the line in his head. He glared at the serenely challenging face before him. Listening to pointless Human nursery rhymes was not the reason he'd called Dax to his office, nor did he see what bearing it had on anything he'd just said to her. Understanding came slowly, but his later reaction to her words was calmer than he felt it should have been.

"You agree with the admiral," he concluded. "Don't you? You believe that I'm risking too much in order to solve too little - that my wanting to deal with this one problem is only going to create more trouble down the line."

Dax turned the captain's baseball once around in her hands, and passed it back to him. "The question is, what do _you _believe?"

"I hate it when you do that," Sisko grumbled, sighing.

"Then perhaps you _do _still have the slightest doubt?" Dax crossed her legs, resting a hand upon the back of the office settee. "Perhaps you see the admiral's point - even if you might not agree. And you can see that this is a risk. If not to our safety, then to all of our careers."

The captain paused, his expression shifting, briefly sucking in his strong, dark lips. _Perhaps_…

But after only a moment, he shook his head. "Of course not."

"There's no shame in admitting that you're less than sure." Dax's watching blue eyes were steady, penetrating. Missing nothing. Her voice had dropped in volume, so far than Sisko had to concentrate in order to hear her words. "Just don't forget what you've known from the beginning."

"And what's that?" Sisko found that he had to prompt her. He looked into the eyes of his most ancient friend, no longer certain where to find the source of the heated frustration inside him. Rising smoothly to her feet, Jadzia nodded subtly. Her expression had cooled, turning hard and intense, and her hands were clasped even more tightly than usual behind her back. She was tall and straight, like a carefully sculpted statue, and her eyes had turned to two hard sapphires.

"That whatever else is going on," she persisted quietly. "This is far more than just a simple problem."

The captain watched her turn away, the doors to his office opening automatically. He listened to their metallic song as they slid to a close behind Dax, and skirted around the same gleaming table, where he sat behind it and toyed irritably with the hair of his beard. Finally, he set the baseball back into place atop its surface. For a moment he'd forgotten that it was even in his hands.

Tightening his jaw, he leaned toward the communications monitor, and reached for the multiple controls directly in front. His fingers worked quickly, fuelled by urgency as he keyed in yet another series of commands - one to put him in direct contact with the captain of the _Destiny_.

* * *

The room was dim, lights reduced to half and difficult to see beyond the middle distance. But there was enough illumination for shapes and shadows to solidify around the interior. The roof was flat, but graded at is edges by angular, concave supports that stretched from corner to corner and curved upward and inward at their centre.

Colours pulsed above him, red, orange and green at the end of a line extending from a band around his arm. At one side was a slanted, empty bed, all shadow and form with little to show what colour it might have been. And closer to, he found the edge of another firm, thin mattress.

Sounds were quiet, soft and calm - the whispers and the lonely reverberations of an isolated room. His mind worked slowly, struggling to piece together what information it could. The dimensions of the room, the warm scent of replicated air, the movement of lights now flashing nearby. The weight of a sheet across his chest…

He did not know this place.

He let out a gasp that was half a cry - bolted upright, and regretted it immediately with the onset of uncontrollable, painfully rapid, labouring breaths.

"Hey--" said a voice at his side - slow and calm, but with a slightly whispered touch of urgency. "Hey. It's all right. Relax. You're safe."

_Safe_?

The warmth of someone's hand was strong around his back and shoulder, guiding him back onto the mattress. With another sickly grimace, Bashir allowed himself to be helped. The voice continued steadily in his ears. "Deep breaths - that's the way. Try to relax now. Whatever's happened - whatever you've been through - I promise it's over. You're safe."

There was that word again. Spoken repeatedly, as though its very utterance could afford him some measure of life. Safe. That was important - a light to follow. A line to cling to. He let it echo in what little he could gather of his thoughts, and discovered with some dim surprise that a part of him believed it.

He made a sound - itself almost too quiet for even himself to hear, but enough for the speaker to know that he understood. Briefly, he wondered about the voice. It had been gentle, friendly. And, he suddenly came to realise, peculiarly familiar.

His first view of the face above him was obscured by a shallow pool of salty liquid across his eyes. They watered terribly, after having been so dry - but he saw just enough even through this barrier to discern the outline of a woman's smile. "It's all right," said a whispered voice. A hand rested against his upper chest. "You're on the Starship _Destiny_. We're heading for the Bajoran sector - Deep Space Nine. You'll see your friends soon."

Bringing one hand cautiously up to his eyes, Julian brushed away the gathering moisture. The source of the voice was a tired looking woman with feathery, shoulder length hair the colour of fresh straw. Even from the unusual angle, she was a little shorter than many other Humans, although with the healthy complexion of someone toned by regular exercise - someone who would take whatever chance she could to find her way out of doors.

"It's good to see you again?" she said, still smiling. "Remember me?"

Bashir nodded, narrowly avoiding a tight grimace at the sudden pain inside his head. Carefully, he studied the doctor through half closed eyes. Her features were unclear - but not unfamiliar. And her patient spoke with a voice still weakened by fatigue.

"I never thought I'd see you again."

"Well, I'll admit you had me pretty surprised yourself."

He searched his memory for a name. Doctor… Kalandra. That was it.

And this ship…

"The _Destiny_?"

"I transferred from the _Tecumseh _about this time last month," Kalandra replied. A soft-edged touch of melancholia passed behind her smile, like rain clouds drifting across the face of some world's sun. "But it's the same old story, isn't it?"

Bashir sensed his own expression change along with hers. He ached with longing to say that he understood, that he remembered having heard about the _Tecumseh's _fate.

"I'm sorry," was all that he could find the strength to say.

Quickly regaining her composure, Doctor Kalandra patted him on the shoulder. "It's not that bad," she promised quietly. "You don't have to be sorry. There's nothing to be sorry for."

Last time they'd met each other, it had been in the middle of triage in a bunker under siege - a network of caves with forcefields on every side. The Battle of Ajilon Prime. Had it really been only a year? Even his journey aboard the _Ragnarok _felt like it was more than a lifetime ago - a lifetime that barely seemed like his own.

"What about…?" he gasped suddenly. "Corinna? Please. I have to know."

Kalandra blinked. "Who's Corinna?"

"My cousin." Bashir's voice rose with frustrated anxiety. "We were on the same transport. The Shuttle _Ragnarok_."

"I…" The doctor paused - her face just a little tighter than it had been only moments earlier. "I'm sorry, Julian. I can't honestly say. But the officers on that space station of yours checked and double checked the passenger lists from the _Ragnarok_ as soon as the others arrived. And from what we've heard from O'Brien and Garak, you _were_ the only one unaccounted for."

"Miles?" he asked at the sound of his friends' names, suddenly realising that they were not in the room with him. Reluctantly - but he had to know. "Garak?"

"They're fine," the doctor replied. "From what I understand, there was some damage to your vessel - but they're setting about repairing it now. If you like, I could see what else I can find out. I think we should wait a while before bringing in any visitors."

He nodded, still anxious - but unable to gather enough energy to argue against her compromise.

She was holding something in one hand, deftly programming it with the other, and moved it toward him. "Now. This may make you a little drowsy…"

Bashir flinched away before realising that he'd even moved, and lifted one hand to push aside the doctor's hypospray.

"It's all right, Julian." Keeping her voice low - soft and comforting - Kalandra withdrew. "It's just a mild analgesic. Something to help you to feel a little better, that's all."

There was still the same fear in her patient's eyes, still threatening to swell into open panic, and still that same instinct to fight every one of her attempts to get close. His hands remained curled tightly into fists, nails pressing hard into his palms. But the pain had not left him either - sharp, unyielding, stabbing all the way to his marrow. _She's only trying to help_, he reminded himself, suppressing the urge to reinforce his imagined protective shield.

Bashir winced with a gasp of alarm at the momentary chill against his skin. Almost instantly, he sensed the pain fade gradually from his bones and muscles, but remained tense, gazing ruefully up at the face of his one-time colleague.

They were silent for a moment, until Julian discovered a prickling sensation across his eyes, more difficult to fight against with every time he blinked. He struggled to focus on the doctor's face and sensed himself drift as though caught by the current of a slow-flowing river.

"What was in that hypo?"

"Hydrocortiline." Kalandra paused to study his expression. "You don't approve?"

"That's not what it feels like," he accused, already whispering. "There's something else - isn't there?"

"Perhaps," agreed the woman at his side. "But you still should get some sleep."

Julian shook his head. Or, at the very least, shifted it heavily from one side to the other. "Not tired…" he mumbled, even as his own eyelids betrayed him, and closed.

* * *

The final trail of Starfleet officers had passed through the wardroom door, and trickled away until even the outer corridor was almost entirely unpopulated. The last of them nodded and smiled at Corinna. But still, she found herself slowing as she approached the entrance, and stopped uncertainly just a single step beyond.

"I hear that you may be leaving us," said a voice from behind her.

Corinna turned, startled by the unexpected interruption, and watched as the captain approached her from further along the hall. She nodded, forcing as much sound from herself as she could muster. "I think it's for the best." Her own voice was so much softer than his. "There's nothing to keep me here now."

"A shame." His smile was subtle, barely defined - but sure enough to calm some of the agitation in her heart.

Sisko did not have to invite her to accompany him on his continued journey along the corridor. They kept a slow pace, taking the first steps in silence until Corinna realised - somewhat puzzled - that she had begun to count them in her head. She was far from certain what had made her turn and walk beside him, but she hesitated at the sound of Sisko's deep voice in her ears. "Your children must be very lucky," he commented.

Corinna frowned, and finally looked his way again. "Lucky? How?"

"To have you as their mother."

She stopped, tears now gathering shallowly in her eyes, but somehow managed to force a smile. And yet, she still felt a need to avoid the captain's gaze. Everything had changed so quickly, was it ever likely to get back to the way things might have been?

_Corinna and Liam had known for months about the war, even when it had seemed to distant for it ever to enter their lives. The town where they lived was small, quiet and isolated. Most of their neighbours were too elderly or too focused on their own affairs to concern themselves with what was happening beyond the borders of their community._

_Cardassia. Bajor. The wormhole. The Dominion… None of these had meant much more to her than names. At least, not before she'd heard that the cousin she hadn't seen in many years might yet be coming back to Earth. Now, when she closed her eyes, she could not stop herself from thinking about the _Darwin_._

_The ship had fought bravely, from the little that Corinna had managed to find out. She had read the standard, official, and slightly officious news reports - even wondered without much hope whether there would be something bearing the name of Toran Kwan. Even Dax, and especially Worf had been unwilling to reveal more detailed particulars. But there had been eyewitnesses, people from other ships who had been able to tell something to the News Service._

_The final destruction had lasted for all of fifteen minutes - or so these same people said. Corinna pictured those minutes, as they would replay in the darkness. Neon-bright sparks of plasma, spouting from every direction like water from a blowhole. Screams of tearing metal, its ear-stabbing discords mingling horribly with the cries of living beings. She wondered if any had called for their families._

_In the most frightening versions that touched her imagination, Kwan's face was replaced with Liam's - or sometimes even Meg's or Tessa's._

She blinked away the image before the attentive dark eyes of Captain Sisko could catch her reaction - and forced a polite, although slightly nervous, smile.

The station commander spoke again. "If you can find it in yourself not to leave us just yet, I'd like to suggest an alternative."


	23. O7

_Balanced on one side of a steep and barren slope, Julian shuddered - not entirely from the chill. The ground was dust and desiccated charcoal, almost microscopically fine, so that even the slightest breeze was able to lift it far enough to coat his mouth, nose, and lungs. And everywhere around him - randomly distributed at distant intervals - the trunks of twisted, leafless trees poked at uneasy angles through the soil. Looking out across the ash-grey landscape, he stepped towards one, and reached out with a trembling hand, hesitant to make contact with its surface._

_It was dry to the touch, smoother than such a thickened, peeling outer layer of bark should be, and shifted with a soft, eerily organic rattle._

Not a tree… It's not a tree!

_The ground collapsed inward, sinking like sand running through a narrow funnel. And the bones of an arm - framed by the shadows of rotten, tattered rags - jerked suddenly forward to grab him by the throat. Another forced its way almost immediately through the ground beside him, and tightened hard around his ankle. They were pulling him down. Choking, already shrouded by the weight of hot ash, Julian struggled vainly to find a longed for breath of air. The grey of the sky was rapidly turning to a harsh flame red, with sparks falling about him to die and fade upon the dusty hills._

No_, He forced the words into his thoughts. _This must not happen.

_He had to convince himself that this was not real. He had to find some measure of control. Reaching upward, he wrapped both hands around the other's thin, hard wrists - struggled to lift them away and heave them to one side._

_They resisted, pressing down still further with the weight of a heavy, thick-muscled brute. The chill of desperation like a shock across his skin, Julian clenched both hands around the arms still at his throat. He squeezed against them until his wrists ached, until he felt the hard, dry crack of bone. The detached, skeletal arms were coming apart, disintegrating slowly into his palms. Finally breaking free, and struggling to the surface, he knelt, exhausted, on the same dry ground - and opened both hands for a second look at what he had destroyed._

* * *

His eyes snapped open.

"Julian!"

A shadow was quick to emerge from the dim light of the room. This time, Irina Kalandra paused, and waited for the initial shock of waking to pass them by before attempting to come any closer. Bashir watched her, but concentrated on the steady rise and fall of his own chest - at least until it had calmed somewhat. He had woken with the afterimage of his dream still fresh in his memory. His throat burned, mouth so parched that every movement felt like the retreating tissue attached to the bones of a dried-out corpse.

"I need water." The only words that his still sluggish brain was able to gather. He was grateful to discover that there was already a glass at his bedside, and struggled into a sitting position, all attention focused on maintaining his grip upon the drink in his hand. Kalandra watched as he sipped its contents. But she said nothing as he finished, lowering the empty glass towards his lap, and studying it in contemplative silence.

_A transparent substance - only visible because of the light bending through and across its edges. But perhaps a man could wonder if that was all there was to give it shape_. He frowned, and stared, but with little attention to spare for any of what he was actually seeing.

"Does it still hurt?"

"Not so much," lied Bashir, a response no louder than this half-whispered query. He pretended not to notice the doctor's quietly disbelieving frown as Kalandra reached forward to take the glass from him.

"It's still late," she said, but hesitated before resting a hand upon his shoulder.

"I'm not sure I could get back to sleep," he confessed quietly. "Even if I tried."

"I could get you something to help with that," offered Kalandra.

Bashir shuddered invisibly from the continued memory of his dream, knowing that there was fear still showing from behind his eyes. "I… I'd rather not."

"Why not?" Kalandra finally settled at his side, to give herself time to notice the more subtle details of his face. "Was it your dream?"

He looked away.

_Kneeling atop the soft, dry soil, warm air coating his mouth and nose with particles of fine dust, he'd fought hard to find enough courage to lift both hands for a closer look. It was not real - he had to remind himself. Whatever he would find, it would not be real. But even then, he was torn between a burning need to see what was inside, and an ominous, stomach churning sense of cold dread._

_At this time, nestled against a bed of tattered teal and navy cloth, and surrounded by needle-sharp fragments of bone, he discovered the slightly curved, arrow-shaped form of a tiny Starfleet brooch. The light glinted softly from its surface even as it crumbled to nothing, snatched away from his open palms to join the shifting, swirling wind_.

"Julian." The doctor leaned forward, as though to catch his every thought. "Tell me. What's really going on?"

"I'm not sure I know what you…" Bashir faltered.

Kalandra tried again, this time with a hint of a sigh behind her voice. "I know about what happened with Starfleet. I know you're used to keeping secrets," she persisted. "But you don't have a reason to hide anything from us. And there has to be more, doesn't there?"

Julian watched her, a blunt pain mounting at the base of his throat. Aching with a powerful, visceral desperation to give some voice to the tight uncertainty inside him, he found himself choking against the wordless chaos of his thoughts.

"I don't…" He rubbed his eyes. "I'm just tired of answering everyone's questions. That's all."

"Of course."

Kalandra nodded quietly, pushing away some tension from her brow.

"I guess first time I heard, it did seem to explain a lot," she confessed. "Back on Ajilon Prime, we never did find out how you managed to bring that transmitter back to us so easily."

"What are you…?" Bashir's response was half a gasp, fuelled by utter disbelief. "What are you saying - you thought that was _easy_?"

_Tears spilling in wet streams from his eyes, fighting not to be smothered by the overwhelming guilt and pain… The weight of hard corners had pressed into the damaged flesh of his back, chaffing skin that was already tender and swollen. Even after reaching the security of the tunnels and finally crossing the outer edge, where the restoration of power might have guaranteed them all safe harbour - if only for a little while - the sensation had long since vanished from his limbs. The world around him had dipped and swayed, leaving him off balance, half blind, the clouds of dull grey across his vision never once dulling the hurt inside. Twice already, he'd come close to falling - and with no guarantee that he would be able to stand again, should he lose his balance a third time._

His companion's expression changed again - now turning to a look of mild alarm. "That's not what I meant."

Julian closed his eyes, and looked away with a shake of his head. He could sense the discomfort in the air - Doctor Kalandra reacting with no more than instant, heavy silence. Maybe he should have told her, at the very least, that everything was still all right. That she needn't worry - or possibly that he understood. Still queasy, he took a deep breath, but was unable to ignore the warm, slick moisture of escaping tears.

_The only conclusion he could ever have reached was that his strength at the time had less to do with engineering - and more to do with sheer bloody-mindedness. And yet, he'd asked the same question of himself, more times than even he was able to count. Could that be right? Just where _had _he found the energy to return to the colonists' makeshift hospital?_

"Sorry."

He opened his eyes again at the touch of a hand on his shoulder. A strand of hair had come loose over the doctor's brow. She brushed it away and smiled a little sadly.

"Talk to me." Her voice was hushed, as though spoken from across a great distance. She glanced towards the exit, to where Bashir assumed there must have been another room beyond. That customary buffer between the insular space of Sickbay, and the far more public halls and thoroughfares. "Or if not to me, then at least to someone."

_Another counsellor_? The very notion made him nauseous. He'd had more than his fill of other people's questions.

"All right." But it was not a real concession - he knew enough to ascertain that much. Kalandra rose to her feet, and nodded with reluctant acquiescence. "But if you do decide there's something more you want to say…"

"I'll let you know."

* * *

In spite of all that he had said, Bashir found himself waking to the light of another new day. _That's odd_, he thought, stirring a little. He was not aware of having rediscovered a way to sleep. He paused to consider, glad not to have been met by any further dreams, and listened to the sound of voices in the middle distance.

Whatever words were spoken beyond the outer partition, he was scarcely able to decipher. The speakers' subdued murmurs were not intended to be heard beyond their circle. But they were soft and constant, quietly soothing. He liked the way they sounded to his ears.

Sighing heavily, he rubbed away another blunt headache, and manoeuvred himself to sit a little straighter with the pillow against the small of his back.

Two men walked in through a door to his left, accompanied by an unfamiliar medical officer. Hanging back a little, Garak positioned himself beside a narrow medicine cabinet. He was silent, distantly smiling but without his usual fluent, cheerful attempts at intrigue.

Bashir's other visitor skirted around a loaded trolley at the side of the room, a tawny yellow bag slung loosely over one of his shoulders. _The bad one_, Bashir noticed - and hoped that the weight of whatever was inside would not cause its bearer any damage. But this was not the time to say anything. He concealed this passing concern behind a small, tired smile. "I was wondering when I'd see you two again."

But then he looked away, watching his fingers curl slowly towards the surface of his palms.

"Well," remarked O'Brien. "That's certainly a first."

His friend looked up again. "Pardon?"

"A few years back, you'd have been talking our ears off." The Chief grinned. "And I'd have been the one just waiting for you to shut up."

Bashir huffed - an immediate, silent chuckle. But then he took in a sharp intake of breath - and winced.

He raised a hand to stop the others' attempts to assist him. "Don't - it's fine," he insisted, and clutched his side, breathing slowly, cautiously. Seeing that even Garak had taken a decisive forward step, he looked up again with a pained expression on his face, but at the same time hopeful that he might say something to reassure the people looking his way. He presented his companions with a smile that was more than half a grimace.

"I feel like I've been trampled by a herd of Plygorian mammoths," he told them. "But these painkillers Doctor Kalandra's got me on are pretty effective - for the most part. It will pass."

"If you say so," said Miles, a little dubiously.

Bashir stared for a moment at his hands. Their continued tremor was not as visible as it had once been, but still he felt its lingering presence. "Listen. While I get the chance - I just want to say… Thank you."

"None of that." It was no surprise to hear the Chief's interruption. Neither of Bashir's friends had ever been much good at accepting expressions of gratitude.

"No - I want to. For… uh… For getting me away from that place." The last words had been no more than a whisper. Bashir tensed, noticing that his own pulse was involuntarily gaining speed. "It can't have been easy."

But he'd always known, hadn't he? There would always be some point at which his friends would have to be told. As he continued in a soft, level voice, he did not glance up at Miles' face - but could already imagine it as clearly as if he had.

"You should know, Miles. They asked me about the captain, and I…" He fought against the reluctance of his own slightly choking voice. "I can't say for sure how much I told them."

When he did finally look, their faces were a near perfect copy of what he'd imagined they would be.

"If anything else should happen…"

"Nothing's going to," insisted Miles with a forceful shake of his head.

"Don't, Chief." Bashir's reply was instantly tight, surging upward like a burst of solar energy. "Just -- don't. Please. I've played that game too many times. I know a false promise when I hear it."

He silenced himself, the pressure of sudden contrition twisting in his stomach. His friend's mouth opened again as if to continue his protest. But it was the Cardassian behind him who stepped forward to speak before either Human could make another sound.

"Nothing is likely to happen at this moment, Doctor," he promised. "But if anything does, your affairs will be put in good order. You have my word."

O'Brien glared over his shoulder, failing to conceal a flash of annoyance. Deep Space Nine's only remaining Cardassian delighted in obscuring what division there was between truth and falsehood, rendering it as insubstantial as dissipating steam. But as Bashir watched Garak turn and exit the _Destiny_'s Sickbay, he could not escape the feeling that - this time at least - the assurances he gave could still be trusted.

Alone now, except for one remaining visitor, Julian turned a little guiltily towards the engineer. "Chief…" he began awkwardly.

"Oh - forget it." Miles was quick to dismiss whatever may have been forthcoming. "It's not important. There's more than enough to keep me busy while _you're _loafing 'round in that bed all day."

"Such as?"

A peculiar smile gradually crept into O'Brien's expression. "Well, for starters, Captain Sisko'll have my head on a platter if I don't have that runabout fixed by the time we get back to the station. Oh yeah, and there _was _just one more thing."

He turned away for a moment - and ferreted around the inner corners of his bag.

Pausing to direct a questioning frown at the small caramel brown shape clasped in both of O'Brien's hands, Bashir let out a groan of mild embarrassment that ended in a soft and slightly melancholy laugh. _How in the world_…?

"A friend for you." O'Brien's offer was accompanied by a wry smile as, with a single step forward, he relinquished his custody of his good friend's soft toy bear.

Bashir bowed his head, drawing Kukalaka to him and running a thumb along the tip of one slightly tattered ear. His gaze followed a line of shadow where the fabric of the small toy's belly was creased, its fur a little hard and ruffled.

"I'd thought he was destroyed in the fire," he muttered softly, finding a heat stain across one side - which felt coarse against his fingertips - roughened by the passing touch of flame.

"Been through an awful lot, hasn't he?" the engineer agreed. He settled in a nearby seat before he finally explained. "One of your Bajoran friends found him, and gave him to Major Kira. And after that he somehow ended up with me. I'm telling you now - that's one tough little bear."

Bashir's shoulders shook in another voiceless chuckle. "He's tough, all right," he responded hoarsely. The ragged toy in his hands had been falling to pieces every since he was five years old. Even then, he'd refused to admit that the time had come to let him go.

_My first patient_, he remembered, head still bowed.

"He's a survivor," confirmed O'Brien.

His friend looked back up at both watching faces. "That's true," he whispered, and shaped his mouth into a heavy smile. "And you're right, as usual. Don't worry about us, Chief. We'll be fine."


	24. O8

Breathing heavily through his mouth - although not without some small thrill of achievement - Bashir settled onto the examination bench and rested his head against the nearest available wall. He looked back across the room, relieved that the giddy, light-headed sensation was finally subsiding. "There," he said. "I told you I could do it."

"So you did." A dark, heavy set man had taken over from Kalandra's shift. A humanoid doctor, but not from any world with which Bashir was particularly familiar. A series of shallow skull ridges extended all the way across his brow and two thirds of the way around the circumference of his eyes. And perhaps that stern, taut set of his lips was peculiar to the doctor's species, Bashir recalled himself thinking. Although he doubted it. "But you know what Doctor Kalandra said. You don't want to over-exert yourself."

"Of course not."

Bashir resisted the urge to hunch over like an old man, but tightened his grip upon a slight overhang at the edge of the bench. The distance he'd covered was shorter than it had seemed from the beginning. Still, he stopped short of allowing those around him to see how much even that negligible journey had exhausted him. After all, he'd been the one so determined to cross the floor without assistance from any of the _Destiny_'s medical personnel.

The doctor responded with a silent stare, which seemed to last for so much longer than the seconds he took to release his hold. He gave no hint of what he may have discovered in those moments, and certainly no assurance that he believed anything he'd been told.

Bashir stayed in place, every joint aching, and gave only minimal responses to the few questions he received from the alien doctor. He did not look directly at a steady magenta light beam shining into his eyes, and allowed the voices around him - both humanoid and mechanical - to retreat to the edge of his awareness. Even the golden eyed doctor soon abandoned all attempts to engage him beyond the briefest of occasional instructions.

Focussing instead on the stream of his own thoughts, Julian shifted much of his weight into his arms - all that was helping to prop him upright - and lowered his head, eyes closed.

"You _were once a doctor, were you not?" Deyos' remembered voice was as clear as anything that could really be heard. "A doctor in your world is bound to care for others, regardless of whether they are allies or enemies. Isn't that true?"_

_Bashir said nothing, making no move to respond or answer. But he watched the face before him as though bound by a mesmerist's spell._

_Deyos nodded quietly to himself. "I'll take your silence as confirmation," he went on. "So if I'm right, then perhaps you can help me understand one thing. Why is your Federation resisting us? There is so much more that you can get from co-operation with the Dominion. Wouldn't it be so much easier if you would only stop fighting us? Certainly there would be much less suffering on both sides, don't you think?"_

"_Why are you…?" Bashir's teeth were chattering. He paused, shivering, and struggled with a second attempt to force even some semblance of a voice to emerge. "Why are you doing this?"_

"_I have already answered that question." The Vorta's reply had turned cold - dangerous. "It would be better for you, and better for everyone, if you would only stop resisting."_

A door slid open, sharp, and unusually louder than it would normally have been to his hearing. Bashir tensed as though scalded - and felt a warm, strong hand wrapped tightly around his wrist. The doctor's steady yellow-brown eyes did not waver, a slight dilation in his pupils the only sign of the alarm he'd been not quite able to conceal.

A pale young woman had entered the room, with hair the colour of a starless sky, who stood awkwardly by the entrance and clutched one arm as she glanced around her.

"Sorry." Her voice was clear, quiet but confident - and strangely pleasant. "I didn't mean to interrupt. I was just wondering…"

"What happened to you?" One of the younger techs had crossed the floor towards the newcomer. A hint of friendly mockery revealed itself from behind her incredulous exclamation.

"Tennis," the ensign muttered, and cautiously flexed one shoulder in a steady backward motion. "Brynner challenged me to a game. We were playing on the holodeck, but he never told me it was going to be so rough."

_Rough_? thought Bashir, pretending to focus on a blinking display at the opposite end of the room. _Tennis_?

"Take a seat, Ensign." The doctor paused, but without allowing his attention to stray from examining his patient. "I'll be with you shortly."

He closed his medical case with a hard click. Still feeling some anxiety, Julian contemplated the journey back. "Thank you." He smiled tiredly. "Might it be possible… Could I just stay here a while?"

The man seemed to hesitate, his narrow brow ridges shifting into a frown - but finally the intensity in his golden eyes lessened a fraction. "All right," he conceded, and indicated the place where the petite young ensign was still waiting. "But I'll be just over there if you need me."

Bashir tried not to feel the same dull pang of envy, as he noted this man's actions - working with a patient; helping her; accomplishing what Julian had been proud to have been doing. Once. _But not again_. Even now, he had to remind himself of what had happened, as if not one moment of it had ever been real. _Never again_.

"Don't go anywhere," the big man said. "I won't be long." He disappeared into the next room.

Cautiously flexing her muscles once more, the stranger dropped from her place on the bench, and rubbed some of the ache from her muscles. But her expression changed when she finally noticed Bashir. "Are you watching me?" she asked, slyly.

"No," he hurried to reply. "No, I…"

The woman challenged him with eyebrows raised, cocking her head to one side, and Bashir saw for the first time that her eyes were a clear azure blue - the same shade as Jadzia's. "I was just thinking. That's all," said Julian.

"About what?" the ensign asked him, pursing her lips in a curious frown.

"Tennis." Bashir leaned back, and studied her through half closed eyes - mildly surprised to find that he was smiling.

"_Really_?"

"I used to play when I was younger," he continued. "It's many things, but I wouldn't say that 'rough' is one of them."

The ensign laughed, her voice like the pleasant ring of wind chimes. "Perhaps not in the combat sense, but _definitely _on the muscles."

Still smiling, she seemed to blush a little - but gestured towards the exit. "I really should be back on duty…"

She turned away and pushed a strand of dark hair behind her left ear.

"You're a Trill!" exclaimed Julian, finally seeing the characteristic dark bands at her temples. The ensign favoured him with a sarcastic tilt of her chin.

"Yes. I know."

"Sorry." He wondered what it was about her that elicited such an easy smile. "That was rather stating the obvious, wasn't it?"

"A little."

A slight laugh had threaded its way into the woman's voice. She crossed the floor towards him - and Bashir realised with some surprise that he wasn't shying from her approach. "I haven't seen you round here before," she commented.

"It's a big ship," muttered Bashir, and saw his smaller companion shrug.

"I guess so. Although I like to think I have a pretty good memory for faces, ordinarily. It comes in handy in my line of work."

"Which is what?"

Bashir took a moment to notice another figure who had rejoined them, now standing in silence at the edge of the room. The large, coffee-skinned doctor watched them as unobtrusively as if he'd been just another item of furniture. He made no response to Julian's momentary eye contact - nor once that same contact was broken. But still he stood and watched them both.

The pale young woman smiled first in the doctor's direction, and then at Bashir - as she stepped forward and pushed the same wayward strand of hair back into its rightful place. "Assistant Counsellor Ensign Ezri Tigan." She beamed, extending a hand for Julian to shake. "It's a pleasure to meet you."

* * *

"What kind of alternative?"

Corinna stopped at one edge of the corridor, taking a moment to examine the captain's face. This had to have been more than just a casual greeting. There was something about him, simmering intently behind those unblinking eyes. But what?

She took the answer from his expression - as certain of its meaning as if she had been born a dark-eyed Betazoid.

"Something's happened."

_Oh God - Liam_?_ The girls_…? Corinna's heart was gathering speed. Yet even then, she allowed herself time to pause, and reconsider. She did not know Sisko very well at all. But she had known other men like him. If anything was the matter with her husband and daughters, or some disaster had befallen their home, then he would not be the one now urging her to stay. The eyes of the man in front of her continued to watch in anticipation, as though to tease an answer from her - one that he could tell she already knew.

"Julian," she gasped, scarcely daring to allow her rising hopes to take shape. "They've found him."

Sisko nodded. "One of our runabouts had just returned across the border to Federation space. All of those on board were rescued - and I can confirm that he was among them."

"Is he…?" She stopped, unable to finish the thought.

"He's alive," replied Sisko. "But before you say anything else, there are some things you need to know."

Corinna frowned. "Like what?"

A deep sigh from the captain confirmed everything that she had already guessed, and her chest still clenched so tightly that she had to force a breath. She quickly saw that the heavy-set man had started to avoid her gaze. "We're going out to meet them," he informed her. "I think you ought to be with us when we do."

Corinna frowned, sceptical. "On your ship?"

Another nod from Sisko was barely perceptible, and yet somehow still too clear to be mistaken for anything else. "Whatever else you have to be told," he concluded. "We'll tell it to you on the way. That is, if you would still consent to come."

* * *

The runabout _Ganges _had been stolen, fired upon, finally rescued, and was only now close to repair. O'Brien marvelled again at the sheer resilience of those little ships, which - for their size - had once seemed to be among the most heavily battered of the Starfleet armada.

Before the war, of course.

This time, however, it was as silent and still as he could imagine it would ever be, taking up nearly half of the available floor space of Shuttle Bay Two. This was of little surprise to O'Brien. The Destiny's shuttle bays were significantly smaller than those on the _Enterprise _had been, each one only just tall enough from floor to ceiling to allow for the suggestion of an extra level. Perhaps it was the glaring creamy white of the walls. Or more likely it must have been his own increasingly introspective mood, that had caused such fleeting reminiscences of his old ship and past comrades to return to O'Brien's mind.

But as he approached, the same visual clarity brought into focus every touch of heat that had charred the metal surface of the runabout. With a sigh, O'Brien stepped forward to de-activate the primary locking mechanism, and ducked inside without waiting for the door to open fully.

He'd been planning which repairs to make from the moment he'd last exited his quarters. Last minute stuff, for the most part. Realign the guidance matrix, a few minor tweaks to the inertial dampeners, and follow up with a quick and easy diagnostic. A lot of his more complicated tasks had already been completed. But before considering anything else, his first step would have to be to replicate himself a steaming mug of raktajino.

He stopped, all plans forgotten when he saw that another man was already seated in the farthest of four main chairs.

"Can't sleep?" he asked. If the one he spoke to had been at all surprised by O'Brien's sudden appearance, he did not let it show. Instead, he turned his head, smiling sadly - then averted his gaze without offering an answer.

O'Brien looked down, following the other man's gaze until he too noticed the recumbent toy bear resting quietly in his lap, and positioned himself into one of the remaining empty seats. "When'd you get out?"

"About half an hour ago." Julian Bashir coughed almost inaudibly as he spoke the last word, his response little more than a throaty whisper. And he continued to avoid looking into the eyes of his friend.

The Chief's eyes narrowed suspiciously. "Does anyone else know you're here?"

The expression that greeted him was confirmation of all that he'd imagined from the very first moment. This would hardly be the first time that someone managed to slip past the watchful eyes of Starfleet's medical staff. But there was something more behind that initial flash of shock; a tacit plea for silence, which cut short all of his anticipated responses before any found an opportunity to emerge.

Julian set Kukalaka to one side. "I wasn't planning on staying very long," he promised. "I was only looking for… For something I lost."

A frown passed briefly over his face.

"What was that?" asked Miles, his voice cutting into their extended silence.

"Nothing." Julian shook his head - but his immediate response was far too rushed, far too deliberately light. "Nothing at all."

He cast a glance behind him in the direction of the replicator. "You hungry?"

O'Brien allowed a part of the irritation he was feeling to find its way into his voice. "_Julian_."

"All right." Locking together the fingers of both open hands, Bashir stared down at them long enough for the frown on Miles' brow to cause his head to ache. That soft, clear voice of his friend's was sounding oddly resigned. "I'm not really so hungry, either."

_Leave it_, Miles admonished himself, setting his teeth against the temptation to make some new, semi-accusatory comment. Instead, he searched for a way to lessen the tension in the air. "You know--" he offered. "If you tell me what it is you're looking for, then perhaps I could help you find it."

Bashir shook his head.

"Try me," persisted O'Brien. "You never know. What were you wanting to find?"

"Answers." A sigh passed the younger man's lips as he glanced again at his teddy, as though all that he sought need only be taken from those tiny dark eyes. If only he could find the key to unlock the animal's secrets. "Memories… I don't know."

"About the Dominion?"

Seeing his friend's expression twist into a momentary grimace - tight and pained, as if to brace against a raging internal storm - O'Brien echoed that same frown with one of his own, although his was one of sudden regret.

"If you'd rather not talk about it…"

"No," Julian insisted. "I have to remember. I have to _remember _what they said…"

There was insistence in those words, a powerful desperation enough to silence the Chief. The eyes of his friend were tightly narrowed as though to peer right through the smooth-edged console. He reached to one side and plucked the secretive teddy bear from its surface. "There was… It was something about data, perhaps? Yes - that was it. They wanted scientific data from some of the research I've done. Everything I could tell them. About the Quickening, about that plague on Boranis, Mundara… and… _My God_!"

The last exclamation particular grabbed O'Brien's attention. "What?" he demanded, forgetting everything he'd ever been told about the need for patience in situations like this. But he dreaded to think what could possibly be worse than the catalogue of epidemics that Bashir had already shown him in that quiet and strangled voice. But the next one forthcoming, shaped like a ghost from a place of near silence, sent a shock of personal memory running all the way along O'Brien's already agitated nerves.

"The Harvesters."


	25. O9

_Had Deep Space Nine's Doctor Nathan Hayes been present on board the _Destiny_, he would likely have taken a more decisive action to stop Bashir from escaping the safer confines of the medical bay. He had the experience, after all, to remember that his predecessor knew of every twist and back road that there was to be found on a Federation medical computer. This certainly included the means to connect any Sickbay to the ship's main functions, and especially site to site transporters._

_Julian had refused a hypo that Kalandra had offered him, shuddering now at the very thought of sleep, but careful to remain polite. He was just as agitated as he'd been before, wishing that he could wrap both arms around himself, curl into a ball, cover his head, and hide from all the others' prying eyes. The passage of the morning had left him agitated. Powerless. And irritable enough to want to scratch at the creeping pins and needles along his skin until he had rubbed himself raw._

_He'd gained a decent variety of skills, simply by observing the likes of Quark and Garak. There were occasions when Major Kira had encouraged him to put these into practice - mostly by watching and noting the Ferengi's more questionable dealings. But most of what he'd discovered had been the result of trial and error - and carefully tested strategy. Of course, in his mid and even late twenties, this knowledge was not something he would have thought of putting to use. But now…_

_His first impulse on entering the runabout had been to resume his search for Hilary Larkin. The runabout's onboard database had to be significantly more comprehensive than that of the _Ragnarok_, and whatever could not be found there would be far easier to upload from other nearby places. But he had allowed the console to remain as black and lifeless as ever._

_The leaden weight on his shoulders had lessened somewhat, but was never far from the edge of his thoughts. He had only been given one reason to believe that there was any chance of success. And this, he recalled with mild despair, had come came from a man he barely knew and who certainly did not have his unquestioning trust. And what was the point in continuing to chase after long abandoned ghosts? Even if his actions now were not an utter waste, what part of his life remained, that could possibly be worth saving?_

* * *

"Oh." Garak was as surprised by his own small gasp of astonishment as he had been to discover both his companions seated in the runabout. He paused halfway through the open hatch, wondering with some bewilderment why he should have been surprised. Had he not come to this place already half expecting to find them? But he hid the expression quickly, covering it up with what he hoped was his least alarming smile.

"What are you doing here?" demanded O'Brien.

Garak hesitated, although reluctant admit that his actions might well have been signs of uncertainty. Even a lie was so much easier to tell when one first had some viable notion of the truth. But perhaps in this case, there was no real need. Neither of those in the runabout with him were looking particularly keen to hear his answer.

"I could equally ask the same of you," he chose to respond. "Considering that our paths have crossed with each other and not with anyone from this ship, it is my assumption that neither _one _of us has any interest in making ourselves especially easy to find."

Bashir continued to stare at his hands without offering a verbal response, although his fingers may have clenched just a little more forcefully. _A bad sign_, Garak thought. As he looked from one face to the other, he pursed his lips into a thin, tight line.

Word had been quick to reach him by the usual indirect route - a quiet inquiry here, some subtle insinuation there - that the good doctor or whatever he happened to call himself now was no longer in the place where others had assumed that he should be. His own recollections of prematurely departing a succession of medical facilities was clear in Garak's mind, several of many instances which had led his own father to believe him incorrigible. But then, Tain had never entirely repudiated those same qualities in himself.

More often than not, the younger Elim's escapades had resulted in a scolding, not least in more recent times by Doctor Bashir. But with the aid of his memory, combined with just a little deduction, he had estimated that he would most likely find his Human companions in one of only three - maybe four different places. If either of them was at all similar to the Cardassian tailor, then the first place to which they would be drawn would have to be somewhere moderately familiar.

And he doubted - at least in this instance - that either of them was in any mood to be unpredictable.

* * *

Lifting his head a fraction - looking not at his companions, but to the blackened and inert controls - Bashir paid only distant attention to his friends' brief exchange. He followed their words as though a mere observer, watching some drama on a stage - a predetermined script in which he scarcely had a part to play.

He saw Garak's mouth open, as if to make some further comment. But the Cardassian was quick to look away. Nothing escaped his lips beyond what had been already said.

But that did not mean that there was nothing more to say.

"Miles. I'm a traitor."

"No you're not!" the Chief insisted even more forcefully. "You're the last person I'd imagine ever betraying anybody. And none of what you've told me now would convince me that you've committed any treason."

_Maybe not intentionally_, Julian thought, but found that he had already turned his face away.

This was how it was to be. The Federation had robbed him of his position, of all that gave meaning to his life, except for the knowledge that he would never deny those things that he'd always believed. But if the fragments of memory and dimly echoed dreams had told him true, the Dominion had taken even that from him.

"I…" Bashir choked on his words, unable to distract himself from the sight of his unsteady pale-fingered hands. "I swore that no-one else would ever know what we learnt about the Harvesters, and they would certainly never find it out from me. We both did. Remember? But now I think it… it may have been better if we had died along with everyone else that day."

"Don't you dare think that." O'Brien's response was suddenly, immediately fierce, his voice hoarse - only partially retrieved even after a long and weighty silence. "Don't even _start_. I like my life the way it is. I _like _being alive, and nothing - _nothing _- anyone can tell me is about to change that fact."

"I'm sorry, Chief. I never meant to…"

"All right," he grumbled. There was tension in the air - fortifying the uncomfortable barrier now wedged between them.

"But for anyone--" Bashir whispered, half to himself. "For the _Dominion _to have found out that kind of information…"

_And for me to have been the one to tell them_… The power of this added thought pressed down upon him like a blow to his stomach.

"…May indeed prove quite unpleasant." Garak cut into their dialogue, his voice sharp, and momentarily startling in its abruptness. "But even if what you say is true, we don't know for sure that your captors found anything from you beyond what they already know."

_I know what you're trying to do_, thought Julian. Extricating truth from falsehood, where Garak was concerned, was too often like trying to untangle the fabled Gordian Knot. A younger, more naïve Doctor Bashir might even have been convinced by his reassurance - before experience had taught him to find cause for suspicion in every utterance he heard from the mouth of the Cardassian tailor.

"Then why go to so much trouble?" demanded O'Brien, his scowl darkening.

Why was Garak hesitating? Julian wondered briefly. It was hardly like him not to have an instant response. But his reply when it came was rapid and fluent. "If it were me in their position - and that's not saying that it ever _would _be - this could well be a matter of attempting to ascertain how much _you _have managed to discover."

It was rare to find certainty in anything that Garak claimed to know, but it took barely a moment to realise that none of those seated in the Ganges were taking any comfort from their attempts at rationalisation. So when had the moment been? Bashir asked himself with increasing vexation. When had it become so very difficult to set his mind at ease?

"So what happens now?" he asked - only half expecting to hear an answer.

"There's not a lot we _can _do, is there?" growled O'Brien. "Not while we're sitting around in here."

"We ought to tell someone."

The others paused, and Bashir discovered that he was looking up at two pairs of steady, staring eyes. "I'll tell them." It was O'Brien who broke the silence, the stiff edge to his voice too narrow to allow for disagreement. He waved a stubborn finger at his friend, as though sensing an argument about to emerge.

"Not a word," he scolded. "I said I'd take care of it, and I will. By the looks of things, you'd do better to get back to the medical bay before you keel over, or something."

_I'd have been telling him the same_. "Right," muttered Julian, taking surprisingly little comfort from the idea. He'd heard, read - _assumed _- that confessions brought release. But not for him. His biggest secret had been revealed at the cost of his career. And now it seemed the task would fall to others, to deal with a problem of his own making. Perhaps it was better that he had not told them about Larkin.

"Just… Just give me a moment," he pleaded. O'Brien was right - even now he struggled to stop his eyes from closing. "Just a moment - it won't be too long."

* * *

Patrols were light along the border - the Dominion continuing to regroup and recover from their demoralising loss of the place they had returned to calling Terok Nor. There were rumours. As usual, word had reached the station's Ferengi population before it did many others - and from there spread among the nervous civilians. Perhaps, they said, the Dominion might even consider a negotiated ceasefire, if not a permanent peace.

Could this be a sign of weakness, some had started to wonder. But not Ben Sisko. Peace with their enemy was far away, if it was coming at all. And even when defeated, the invaders' teeth were as sharp as ever. A fox driven back into its burrow was every bit as able to bloody its adversaries' hands.

"_So, you're taking the Defiant out after all." There was no hint in Dax's voice that she'd been expecting anything else. A smile came to the corner of her mouth as she paused to watch her long time friend._

"_You make me sound so predictable," Sisko had responded, almost accused._

What could it have been? he asked himself, settling hurriedly into the captain's seat. What was it about the Old Man's words that had them replaying so insistently inside his head?

_Her answering laughter was as clear in his memory as if she'd continued laughing all the way to the bridge. Soft and pleasant, but still with a trace of melancholy behind it. "If I remember rightly, Curzon took less than a week to learn not to try predicting you," she'd assured the Human captain. "But in this case, I'd be lying if I said I was surprised."_

_He had told the Prophets once, that the past was something that could never be regained…_

Pushing away the echoes of long finished conversations, Sisko focused his attention on the forward display. "Release docking clamps." He felt a low shudder beneath his feet, the docking clamps relinquishing their hold upon his ship. _Orders or no orders_, he thought, trying not to wince at the sudden reminder. They would not have very far to go - and would most likely be there and back before anything happened to make their absence matter.

"_Are you really sure that I…?"_

The Defiant span around in one smooth, fluid motion, and before long it was Corinna's words that started to play inside his head. Her image was as clear to him as Jadzia's had previously been.

_Looking fretful and out of place, the honey-skinned young woman had hesitated anxiously just inside the airlock, and faltered mid-sentence, lowering her gaze towards her fidgeting hands. The beginnings of her awkward question had quickly faded to a memory._

_Then, she had turned to face him, uncertainty and conflict behind her desperately wide brown eyes. But even as her steps grew shorter and tighter and her hands pressed against her upper arms, she managed to steel herself enough to force her way forward._

"Dax." Remembering his present surroundings, Sisko quietly summoned the attention fo the stately, long-haired Trill, whose chair rotated in a smooth semi-circle until she was able to meet his eyes. She understood, without the need for words, and rose from her place with a smile and a quietly subtle nod of acknowledgement.

"Leave it to me."

From the corner of his eye, Sisko noted a glowering scowl on the face of his Tactical Officer. Dax's husband glared darkly for a moment, his eyes sparkling beneath the shadow of his rigid brow. But he raised no objections - and Sisko quietly allowed the moment to pass. This job, the captain knew, was best left to Commander Dax. He had already noticed some of the interaction between her and Corinna Anderson, and especially that they seemed to have developed something of a quick rapport. Whatever Worf's misgivings, thought Sisko, he could surely be trusted to keep them to himself.

* * *

A thick, serrated door rolled to one side with a laboured grinding of its hydraulic joints, until finally, it was well enough ajar to allow a trail of passengers an easy ingress through the airlock, and onto the outer docking ring. Last to exit behind a pair of tall Bajoran engineers - a man in a stiff, matte grey shirt, almost Romulan in its inflexibility although the man himself was far paler than a Romulan, set both feet upon the carpet and stopped beside the opening. He waited, glancing surreptitiously from side to side, and paused to watch his fellow travellers as they filed away in twos and threes and vanished from sight around the nearest corner.

"_So what is it you've come all the way here for?" The speaker was one of several passengers their transport had collected on its most recent stop at Bajor. She had studied her companion quietly, squinting through her diminutive, loose-skinned eyelids._

"_Oh, just another minor conference," had been the man's response. "Nothing special. You know how it is. Nothing that would be of interest to anybody else."_

_The woman's slightly puffy face had pushed itself back into a smile. "How would you know unless you try me?" she'd asked - a bold, jocular challenge._

_The passenger at her side had forced a laugh. Small talk - that was the key. It was probably the closest ally he was ever likely to have_._ Keep it light, keep it simple, and nothing he said would mean enough to arouse the woman's curiosity. "I'm afraid that when it comes to my kind of work, most other people just aren't that interested. Truth is I have trouble staying interested myself."_

_His fellow traveller seemed at least to have taken his hint. Quietly echoing his expression of mirth, she folded both hands in her lap, and closed her eyes. They had remained closed for the remainder of the voyage._

The man had not initially planned for this contingency, but it was just as he had indicated to Admiral Ross. There were few possible circumstances which could ever truly leave him without a course of action. He would not have gotten as far as he had in the organisation, after all - not without the ability to adapt. And now that the _Defiant _was no longer guarding the station, with the majority of its senior officers equally indisposed, to miss such an opportunity would have proven him a fool. Quietly, alone at last, he checked his chronometer. Three hours to go.

_That shouldn't be a problem_, he thought, nodding to himself. He could wait.


	26. Part Four: HANDS

**Thicker Than Water**

* * *

**Part Four**

**HANDS**

* * *

Even without a clear view of the doctor, Julian felt her disapproval like fire from her eyes. "You shouldn't be pushing yourself so hard." Kalandra folded her arms and fixed him with a tacit, stony challenge. "Haven't Doctor Sonarron and I been telling you all along?"

_He might have mentioned_… Images of the golden eyed Doctor Sonarron rose briefly into Julian's thoughts. But his memories were more of the mirthless face that seemed to have been carved from a lighter shade of granite. Instead of responding out loud, he turned away, a knotted pressure clenching at the centre of his throat. By the time he and the others had finally re-entered Sickbay, Bashir had sensed uncontrolled shudders spreading throughout his body. He hunched like an old man on the bed, although grateful that the trembling was not visibly evident beyond his hands.

There was frustration behind the doctor's sigh, but coupled with resignation - and gentle enough that Julian might have easily missed the struggle she was putting into exerting control over her own voice. "What were you trying to do?" she asked of him.

"I had … things. To sort out." What was it, he despaired in secret, that had robbed him of the will to keep searching, as surely as a thief come in the night? "I had to find someone."

"Who?"

Bashir shook his head. "Nobody." His reply was hoarse. "It doesn't matter - not any more."

"Julian…"

"I said, it doesn't matter."

Stepping away for a moment, as though across some imagined border, Kalandra rubbed both eyes with a thumb and forefinger. "All right," she responded, scowling briefly. "But the next time you have things to sort out, see if you can't at least let someone know."

Again, she fixed him with that same insistent air, almost daring him not to comply.

Every muscle tight and sore, Bashir was more than certain that he lacked the energy to resist.

"All right," he agreed, quietly.

The doctor nodded. "Good." But then she rested a hand on Bashir's forearm, the touch demanding his attention.

"Listen to me, Julian." The admonishing tone was back, although it was still quieter now, its sharper edges softened somewhat. "Whether you think so or not, your body has been through a significant trauma, and it's going to take longer to recover than you might want to admit. You understand that, logically. Don't you?"

Bashir avoided her gaze, his own face hot with the sudden rush of blood. She was right, he conceded - without the need to say so aloud. He did understand.

"I have to get a few things from next door," Kalandra told him. "I'll be back in just a moment. So whatever you do, stay where you are, and don't move."

_Where would I go_? wondered Bashir. But he nodded silently, unsure what he would have said even had he found the voice to speak.

Raking her fingers through her fine, dusk-blonde hair, Irina Kalandra turned away again, and glanced only once more over her shoulder as she took a deliberate step through the exit.

* * *

Julian's eyes had closed by the time that she returned. In another moment, she noted that his breathing had slipped into a slow regular pattern. _Good_, she thought, although she could not say with any certainty that he was really asleep. Even as she glanced his way, was that not a small frown she had only half noticed shifting across his brow?

But his hands still gripped the dark caramel bear that Chief O'Brien had earlier passed to him. Kalandra did not understand the toy's significance. It was frayed, rumpled, one eye missing, and slightly singed along one side. She sensed that it was better if she pretended not to notice. But from what she understood, Julian's friend had gone to some effort to carry it with him all the way from that station of theirs. There must have been something important, some hidden story that went far beyond the tangible attributes of tattered fabric and stitches.

She decided that she would not attempt to voice the doubt still in her mind - but wondered how she could have missed the possibility that Bashir might be a flight risk. She considered asking Counsellor Hsu to help her find out what was really going on - but what difference would that make?

Torn between several equally unsavoury options, Kalandra made a silent vow: This man would not be alone in her Sickbay again. There were subtler ways to keep an eye on someone, far less obtrusive than a twenty-four hour watch. The problem of course was that Julian probably knew them all by now. And ex-doctors, Irina was rapidly discovering, could make even more infuriating patients than doctors.

As softly as she could manage, weight shifting only gradually with each cautious step, she moved to stand a little closer.

Her patient's hold on the teddy bear tightened abruptly, every one of his knuckles now especially pronounced and pale. He flinched, staring with wide open eyes, and briefly trapped in a moment of startled panic.

_So, that answers that_. Bashir had not been sleeping after all.

"All right," the doctor told him, raising both hands in her best attempt at a placatory gesture. "All right - you're okay."

Bashir paused, and blinked as though waking from a hypnotic trance. "Sorry," he muttered, averting his gaze.

His still-polite, forceful effort to free himself from this compromising position was approaching unbearable. Kalandra had once treated a man from the colonies, an elderly clothing merchant in the later stage of a severe, rapid onset form of dementia. His mental pathways deteriorating like the decay of a dried leaf, the man had screamed abuse at the hospital staff as spittle flew from his mouth and formed a semi-reflective film all the way across his chin.

Other days, this formerly proud, astute and gentle man had lost all awareness of his surroundings - eyes revealing nothing save for the same panicked confusion that had briefly touched the face of her friend. It had cut her deeply, she recalled. As surely as any Klingon blade. And as naïve as she had been, she had not imagined that she could feel such pain again.

* * *

"There's one more thing I have to do," Corinna was promising someone on the screen before her. She didn't look up as Jadzia entered, but cast a heavy smile at the unseen recipient of her communication. The tension of some inner struggle showing plainly on her face. "I'll be back before you know it, sweetie. Love you."

Every action still accompanied by a momentary hesitation, she cut short their connection. Then, finally, she lifted her head to look up at what had only seconds ago been the sound of an opening door. Dax saw her blink, as though unsure whether to believe in the reality of this other woman's presence. But then the small, tired smile returned to Corinna's face.

"Your family?" inquired Jadzia.

The Human nodded. "My husband… Daughters… I never got around to telling them exactly when I'd be home before, but I thought I'd better - especially now that's all changed." She sighed. "I couldn't just run off into the stars again, could I? Not without getting back in touch. Otherwise I'd be betraying them even more than I…"

She stopped, tensed for a moment - and looked away, brushing the ball of one hand across her upper cheek. But then her expression turned to a placatory smile as she shook her head.

Jadzia understood, but said nothing in the seconds that followed, sensing that the sentiment hidden behind Corinna's words was not the kind that required a verbal response. Glancing briefly down, she recalled the weeks that she and Worf had also spent apart, with the station abandoned to the Cardassians and the Dominion and her fiance having left to serve in the Klingon fleet. There were nights when she had lain awake without him, wondering if he was thinking as intently about her. And yet, she reminded herself. She and Worf had not had a family to add to the pain of his absence.

Quietly, she moved to sit at the opposite side of the table. "It's difficult," she agreed, before slipping once again into silence.

_And it's not about to get any easier_. A sadder, far more secret addition to her words. Certainly not the kind of thought she wanted to express aloud.

"How are you settling in?" she asked softly, easing the conversation back towards her initial reason for entering the otherwise empty mess hall.

"Not bad," whispered Corinna, but continued to study the point where her knuckles were sharp beneath the skin of her hands. Dax glanced over one shoulder, to the glowing alcove of the replicator.

"Would you care for something to drink? Tea? Coffee?"

"Tea will be fine. Thank you."

Returning to the table, Jadzia Dax set down one mug of Devonshire tea, and another of raktajino. Both women sat companionably, saying nothing as they clasped their steaming drinks.

"Do you suppose Starfleet will to be angry with the captain?" Corinna asked suddenly, breaking the silence. She continued to stare at the milky brown liquid in her cup, but before very long she had glanced back up at Dax. "He disobeyed orders, didn't he, when he took us away from Deep Space Nine?"

Dax blew soundlessly across the top of her raktajino, allowing the breath of air to displace the steam at its top, before answering. "That's certainly possible," she confessed in a soft but level voice. "But Benjamin's gotten us all out of tougher situations than this. Something tells me that if anyone can sort everything out with Starfleet Command, it's him."

"Are you sure?"

Again, Jadzia allowed herself a moment to reflect on just how much Corinna was like her cousin, both of them all too ready to take on everyone else's problems in addition to their own.

"Everything will be fine," she promised again. "Don't worry about it."

* * *

Commander T'Parn took only a moment to decide that she definitely needed an alternative account of the information she was receiving from the flustered Irish engineer. Logically, it was always possible to gain the best view of any situation, but only if one first examined the problem from several different angles. And this Human, she quickly discovered, was notably easier to agitate than others of his species.

"What precisely are you attempting to tell me, Mister O'Brien?"

"Do I really have to spell it out for you?" Predictably, it came as no surprise to hear the man's voice ascend in pitch and volume. In times of urgency, every emotional species was prone to such behaviour - and just as regularly annoyed by her calmer, more rational response. She believed it was her own father who had made the observation, and taught her just how much truer this was of certain individuals than of others - even within a single species. Possibly - although with less in the way of outward consistency - even her own.

O'Brien stopped, only now seeming to notice how combative his tone had become, and that whatever he thought the Vulcan lacked in comprehension, she was still a superior officer. "Sorry, Commander," he grumbled.

T'Parn allowed the moment to pass them by, before nodding once to O'Brien and his moderately scaly and suspiciously tacit grey companion. Even now, the commander was only beginning to accustom herself to the possibility that a Cardassian on the USS _Destiny_ could be anything but a mortal enemy.

She had already gathered some measure of information from the engineer's staggered and frustrated account. But before she could convey such troubling news to her captain, T'Parn had always believed that it was equally essential to learn everything she could about the matter. As strategies went, it was a significantly more efficient and logical method of exchanging information.

"Come with me."

Looking up from the only desk in her small, enclosed office, Irina Kalandra's face immediately settled into a guarded, dubious expression. "What is it?" Thankfully, she always seemed to resign herself to moments of negative emotion more readily than most other Humans of T'Parn's admittedly limited acquaintance.

"No," she said, even before the Vulcan had completely outlined the reason for their presence.

"Doctor," came T'Parn's steady rebuttal. She remained unperturbed by the interruption. "This is a matter of Federation security. It is imperative that…"

"I _said_, no." The response was forceful as Kalandra folded both arms across her chest. She was not a large woman, but she easily mirrored the commander's expression of cool, immovable confidence. "I understand your priorities on this ship, but my first responsibility has to be to my patients, _before _Starfleet, or the Federation, or even you."

"We will not take long."

The doctor's grey blue eyes narrowed slightly - an expression T'Parn had found to mean either concentrated scrutiny, subtle antagonism, or in many instances, both. Kalandra's gaze settled briefly on the commander's two companions, and she clenched her teeth as though to utter a silent curse.

"Five minutes," she admonished, pointing a finger at every other occupant of the room. "And not one second more. Just let me check if he's awake."

The Vulcan commander responded with a cursory nod of acknowledgement. "Of course, doctor," she agreed. "I understand."

* * *

A stoic, regal woman, came in through the same door immediately after Kalandra, with Chief O'Brien briefly quickening his pace to be at her side. Eyes sparkling with eager curiosity, Garak followed conspicuously behind them. The undershirt beneath this woman's uniform jersey was bright Command red -and as much as her smooth raven hair and the points of her ears, it was her bearing that marked her as distinctly Vulcan.

"Julian Bashir," she began without hesitation. "Perhaps you remember me from our last conversation. My name is Commander T'Parn."

He did remember her, although the memory remained vague and fuzzy at the edges, and what he knew of their initial contact could scarcely be termed a conversation. As far as he could tell, it had been little more than fleeting, with Bashir himself still groggy from sleep and drugs.

There was no happiness in his former colleague's eyes as she stepped back to make room for the three new visitors. But to see them file in through the smoothly opening door was hardly unexpected. Julian realised that he was not at all surprised by their approach.

"Listen," Kalandra promised him. "You don't have to…"

"It's all right." Better that, he told himself, than to go on pretending that he no longer had anything more to say.

But the first questions from the other woman brought a renewed frown to Julian's face.

"You mean you've never heard of the Harvesters?"

"No." The tall commander responded in a calm, deep voice - as flat and void as any other he'd ever heard. Even knowing what her answer would be was both frustrating and infuriating.

"A little over three years ago--" Even as he started to speak, Bashir's inner debate was constant in his thoughts: Exactly how much should he tell this stone-faced woman? He glanced at where the Chief was hunched uncomfortably just behind his interrogator, and stopped for a long, deep breath before taking his story any further. "Chief O'Brien and I were involved in a project to neutralise a stockpile of biogenic weapons, to make absolutely certain that they would never threaten anyone again. We spent a full week, researching, testing every possible solution. And in the end, we succeeded. The last of the Harvesters was destroyed within a day. But then…"

"Go on," the Vulcan encouraged him.

For a moment, Bashir looked to his friend. O'Brien's eyes were not meeting his. Garak had retained his expression of friendly interest. But this was not his tale. _Looks like it__'__s up to you_, the younger man thought, his pulse already gathering in speed and intensity. The words he had not yet spoken turned his stomach even more than those he had.

Throat dry, he paused for a sip of fresh water, briefly closed his eyes, and then continued.

"The people we were trying to help had been at war for hundreds of years, lost entire worlds to these weapons. So you can understand, can't you, why the thought of history repeating itself should have been so horrible to them? It scared them so much that…" His voice accelerated, rushing to speak words that otherwise would never make it past the pressure in his chest. "That they killed their own scientists. Everyone involved in the project. And then they told the others back on DS9 that Miles and I were already dead."

_Because even knowing about something that destructive was more than either side could bring themselves to allow_. It struck him that Commander T'Parn had not yet asked for any further clarification. Perhaps because so many of their unspoken words were plain on the faces of both men, and even more so in the agonised silence that Bashir's narrative had forced to hover between them.

He saw the Vulcan woman nod to herself, her dark eyes thoughtful - perhaps even troubled. _I'm sorry_, he longed to be able to say, but doubted that it would have done him any good. T'Parn would more than likely find such a sentiment futile, wasted.

_Illogical_.


	27. x2

"Commander." It was Kalandra's face now at their side, the polite tension of her reminder a signal that their interview had come to an end. T'Parn acknowledged the doctor with a wordless bow, and stepped away without protest. But she returned her attention undelayed to the trio of watching men.

"An incidental aside," she informed them. "We have received word from your Captain Sisko, and he tells us that he will reach our anticipated location by this time tomorrow."

It was almost impossible to miss the glance that passed between Garak and Miles. "Sisko…" The engineer winced at the repeated sound of his commanding officer's name, and again when he discovered that Bashir had seen.

"Chief? Is something the matter?"

O'Brien clenched his teeth in an almost painful grimace. "Let's just say that I'm not exactly fond of having to explain myself to the captain."

"Visiting hours really are over." Kalandra's expression had hardened with quiet impatience.

T'Parn nodded. "Chief O'Brien. Would you come with me please." She glanced his way, and also at Garak. The commander's words were not a question.

The Chief's face bore a look of startled confusion. "Huh? What…? Oh. Sorry, Commander. Of course."

And then he too was shifting away. But from the pallor of O'Brien's skin and the subtle tension around his lips, Julian guessed that he took no more comfort in accompanying T'Parn than he himself took in having to remain behind.

* * *

"But I thought the Dominion would have found out everything there is to know about biogenic warfare by now." Captain Raymer cast a demanding glare from one face to the next. "Don't they have enough unpleasant weapons of their own?"

"More than they could ever know what to do with," agreed Kalandra.

She had only recently slipped into the unoccupied space between the commander and O'Brien, and the Chief saw the collective agreement etched onto the faces of all three officers. He sensed the same expression forming on his own. It surprised him on too many occasions, that their enemy had so far made no use of its formidable collection of engineered germs.

The doctor's voice broke through their moment of unhappy reflection. "Ironic, isn't it, that probably the Federation's best expert on the subject is in our Sickbay instead of working on a way to do something about it."

O'Brien wondered if he was the only one to have heard the subtle current of disapproval running beneath the doctor's voice. But from a barely noticeable shift in the creases on Raymer's face, he could only conclude that he had not been alone in his observation.

"All right," snapped the _Destiny_'s captain. "We're not here to debate the merits of Federation policy. Right now--" he stared pointedly at Kalandra. "The point is, what are we going to do about this information?"

"One of us ought to inform somebody at Starfleet Command." Kalandra coughed dryly as though to dislodge a thorn from the back of her throat. "If not them, then maybe the Federation Council, or Starfleet Medical."

T'Parn nodded. "I agree with the doctor," she concluded. "Logic suggests that a single ship will not have the resources to respond alone to such an important source of information."

"But what'll happen to Julian, if…?"

With some effort, O'Brien cut off his own runaway protest before it could lead him beyond the point of possible restitution. "Sorry."

"Not at all, Mister O'Brien." T'Parn was watching him, her gaze level. In spite of all the others looking his way, Miles discovered that it was the commander's dark eyes now making him want to squirm. "The concern you have raised is a valid one - although unfortunately insignificant in this case."

_Insignificant_? O'Brien tightened his jaw. _Bloody unfeeling pointy eared_…

"So what _is _going to happen, then?" Perhaps he had no right to ask. It was wartime, after all, and these three _were _his superiors. And even if he had been their equal, T'Parn was right. He'd known that from the moment he'd agreed to relay Julian's concerns to her. Without much hope of a comforting answer, he glanced instead at the middle-aged doctor.

Kalandra looked away and sighed, rubbing her hair with the palm of one hand.. "I don't know."

* * *

The display of the holding cell - and its prisoner inside - appeared as though distant on the semi-reflective surface of the screen. Gathered as it was from a peculiar, awkward angle, there was still enough visual clarity to show the prisoner stir, and twist herself around to sit lengthways on the standard-issue prison bench.

The station's recent arrival peered first at this image, but soon glanced away, and down to the controls of his remotely established link. Lighting in the Security office was far from ideal, a legacy perhaps of the days when the entire station was only very sparsely lit. But it was enough to reveal two figures engaged in deep conversation, and to show that both were clad in identical pale brown uniforms with stiff, moderately darker sleeves. The standard garb of Bajoran militia officers.

Constable Odo paced the length of his desk, gesturing deliberately with every step. But whatever words he spoke to the carefully attentive deputy were as entirely muted as his image was clear. It would not be long, their observer knew, before only one man left would remain in this secure, enclosed room overlooking the Promenade.

He continued to observe as Odo handed the other man a padd, which was nearly invisible at the angle and distance his perspective provided. The changeling's deputies were well trained, but they lacked the unfailing attention to details, that might have turned the Security Chief himself into yet another added obstacle.

Finding his way into the environmental controls had cost him very little effort and time, but it was considerably more challenging for the newcomer to bring down each in a queue of multiple defensive protocols. Preparation and planning were just as important - if not more so - than the execution of his plan. But so, too, was a level-headed, flexible attitude.

As the Constable left for the privacy of his quarters, his deputy settled into what was usually Odo's chair. Holding his breath, the spy felt his focus sharpen, and watched as the same Bajoran deputy keyed a series of obscure commands into the screen of his padd. But his attention shifted quickly to the other end of the display. The illuminated outline of an active forcefield cast a steady glow across the sun-blonde hair of the cubicle's only occupant.

She had continued to wait in the same far corner, legs folded along the narrow seat, and with her head resting against the brown-grey wall as she locked her hands together and tapped rhythmically with the tips of both her thumbs.

Activating his link to the Security interface required little more than a twitch of the man's pale fingers. His attention constant, he found that he was leaning closer to the image before him. The prisoner had hesitated, looked briefly over her left hand shoulder, and yawned. Rubbing her forehead with the ball of one hand, she tensed, and squirmed against the nearest corner with her eyes now tightly closed.

_Good_, the observer thought as he touched another reddish orange symbol on his interface. The chemical agent had been easier to perfect than it was to transfer from the remote device now clasped against the man's right palm. One part per hundred was all that it would take to complete his mission, distributed as evenly as possible through the life support system of this airtight cubicle. He paused, thankful for a moment that the organisation's research team had understood what demands he had made of them. Whatever else, the substance would have to be effective. Easy to replicate. And entirely invisible, which would give it a clear advantage over the standard airborne gases.

The woman frowned, rubbing her eyes and shaking her head until she swayed a little on her perch. Her head was slowly dropping to her chest, right arm resting diagonally across her lap and with her fingers curled like half dry fern leaves. The station's resident changeling would most likely have been able to tell that something about the scene was not entirely right. But with a modicum of luck, his deputy could be fooled into believing that Jocelyn Davies had merely gone to sleep.

* * *

Bashir had told Chief O'Brien everything that he could think of to tell, and then told the rest to Commander T'Parn. The image of their retreat from Sickbay still had yet to fade from his recent memory. But the problem itself was out of his hands. Better not to think about it - or, at the very least, to _try_…

He focused hard on the artificial noises around him, and on the slightly quieter movement of a silver haired nurse with skin like corrugated leather. Each sound reminded him of a time when the slightly closeted realm of his Infirmary had been at the very centre of his world, but each was far too familiar - and for a very different reason.

Once again, he was rapidly growing tired of the static detail of the walls. _But that's a good sign, isn't it_? he thought, closing his eyes and trying to steer his mind away from the still-persistent recollections. But for the remainder of that day, he would make his best effort to be dutifully restful. Even this sense of moderate boredom, he supposed, could be taken as a sign of imminent improvement.

Doctor Sonarron's permanently down-turned mouth had made his expression difficult to distinguish from any of his others. But at least he appeared to have been satisfied with the results of his most recent scan. The smile on Kalandra's face was more easily understood than her colleague's unmoving scowl, but even then Bashir was not surprised to see the weary trepidation in her eyes.

"You're looking much better," she commented. "Another few hours, and I'd say you can be on your way."

And he felt better, too, Julian realised. With time, even his ever-present trembling seemed to have diminish - if only by a little. Yet he still had to concentrate in order to conceal it from others. "You mean I finally get to take the grand tour?" he asked ironically.

His companion's response came fleetingly close to a laugh, but soon turned more deliberately serious. "No promises, mind you," she told him. "I still want you to save your energy in the meantime."

She paused, suddenly hesitant, and bowed her head as though to pay special attention to the tricorder in her hands. The instrument itself remained conspicuously closed. Then she looked up again, noticing that her patient remained just as troubled. "I've just been in contact with Starfleet Medical," she answered the question that lingered between them, as surely as if it had been spoken.

"About the Dominion?"

Kalandra gave him a silent affirmative.

Bashir's interest was immediate, almost a reflex. "What did they say?"

Seating herself in the nearest chair, Kalandra watched him in silence. A brief internal debate passed just as wordlessly behind the tired grey-blue of her eyes. "They were every bit as concerned as the captain and I," she admitted, nodding slowly. "From what I understand, they may want to question you later."

She caught his quiet, involuntary shudder at the prospect of another interrogation. "Julian?"

"It's nothing," he insisted - somewhat testily. "Really."

_Nothing you can help with, in any case_.

"It doesn't have to be anytime soon," Kalandra promised. "They're willing enough to wait until tomorrow."

_But not too happy about it_, Julian guessed.

He nodded, already casting his thoughts into the future. By the following day he would no longer be aboard the _Destiny_. Still, with the extra time he might be able to work out an effective response. It would give him time to think. And time for the first seeds of dread to grow like a forest in his thoughts. Whether or not he wanted to talk to Starfleet was hardly a consideration, and especially not when his own people could be doomed or saved by what he had to tell.

"Irina--" he ventured, pausing until he had regained her complete attention. "Thank you."

"You're welcome." Kalandra sighed, as though to make some form of silent compromise. But the weary smile upon her face was just as quick to fade. Even now some part of her stance, or possibly the tension behind her eyes, gave him cause enough to hesitate.

"Julian," she began slowly, seeming to gain a little more confidence with every word. But her voice was never stronger than a soft half-whisper. "I realise it's not likely to make a lot of difference, but just in case… I want you to know. If it had been up to me, you never would have left the service."

For a moment, the skin of his face was far too hot for the temperature of the room, with barely enough time to hide his face. It hadn't been up to her, though, had it? Those who knew him - really _knew _him - had scarcely been allowed a single thing to say. And he was just a profile to all the others. All those distant admirals in their offices at Starfleet Command. A face on some flat, impersonal computer screen…

There was a special place for those kind of thoughts - deep at the very base of his gut, some place he would never dare to look. But even then he failed to hide a brief flash of pain from the doctor's eyes. Kalandra's own face paled a little in response.

"…For what it's worth," she added quietly.

Bashir continued to watch her, struggling unsuccessfully to find the words he needed to reply. But he had to. There had to be something he could say, even if all he was able to do was lie. He couldn't allow this woman to believe that she had failed him somehow.

"Thank you," he choked, after too long a silence. "That… That means a lot."


	28. x3

"So," Bashir muttered, pausing just beyond the outer doors of Sickbay. He took a backward step, just far enough to allow him to rest his back against the closest wall. "Where do we go from here?"

"I wouldn't even attempt a guess," said a voice at his side.

Bashir turned his head until Garak's had come into the range of his visual field. He snickered. "That's a first."

"Possibly. But we do have some time before the _Defiant _is due to arrive. What do you think? Lunch as usual?"

"Perhaps later."

Inwardly, he held back a shudder. It was unusual enough to find himself with so little to say. With Garak, practically unheard of. But all of their usual topics of conversation - the fragments he uncovered of his companion's elusive history, the relative merits of Shakespeare and Preloc, even their occasional forays into the current state of galactic affairs - nothing seemed right for the over all mood. Like a humanoid body whose limbs had never been effectively attached.

Even Garak's staring blue eyes stirred some memory inside of him, which he could not allow himself to bring into the light. Lest it burn like the desert sun that had illuminated his most recent dreams.

"No offence," he promised the Cardassian. "It's just that…"

Garak responded with a nod of understanding, which came very close to a bow. "Some other time, then."

_And I used to be the one having to tell him_ _to mind people's privacy_, Julian thought, with some relief that the mysterious tailor was not the kind to force such issues into the light.

* * *

Wandering through each evenly curving hall presented him with an even more pathetic distraction than the scratches and shadows that marred the upper corners of Sickbay. Every wall was a dull, all-over beige, with barely a speck to break its pristine monotony. He came to an occasional arch - where the passage narrowed abruptly for a moment and quickly returned to its original breadth. _Structural arches_, he reminded himself. Something to fortify the corridor's frame. An extra measure of resistance in case of damage or attack.

When had he last seen the interior of a fully sized starship? Long enough to forget how spacious and clean their surfaces could be, even while patrolling the edge of enemy space. With a few patches and a splash of paint, even battle damage could be far too easily repaired - cleaned and polished and forgotten as if whatever disaster had caused such destruction had never even happened.

Was medicine really so very different? A humanoid could be just as readily patched together as a ship, it seemed. At times. But these were questions better left to philosophers, speculations which were already inflaming the ache beneath his skull.

He stopped for a moment and leant against a wall, waiting for a pair of yellow-shirt ensigns to hurry past, wishing that at least a part of the passage would give way. Perhaps to an alcove where he could tuck himself inside, then remain concealed for as long as it took for him to be alone.

Bashir forced a smile and a brief, cursory greeting, reciprocated by the two young officers as they passed. They strode away without a word, never once glancing back at the other man, whose eyes now focused on their backs. A long time ago, he might have been the one hurrying past. But that was a part of some other life now. One that barely felt like it had ever been his own.

_So, _he wondered. _Where to now_? The corridor before him was divided into two alternate passageways, one with letters above a closed door - which only now had resolved themselves clearly enough to indicate a turbolift. He imagined closing his eyes, back pressed against the wall, and allowing his pensive, melancholy thoughts to drift into peaceful oblivion. Every step he had taken was a drain on his energy, but even this was not enough to quell the current of agitation running in irregular bursts along the nerves of his back.

Kalandra was right, of course. If he had been giving advice to one of his outpatients, it would not have included randomly wandering through the arteries of the ship. There had to be some option other than staring at walls and struggling not to think. He could always make a new, concerted effort to get through every chapter of _The Never Ending Sacrifice_. If nothing else, it might afford him something less dubious on which to focus his attention than the persistent, ghostly voices of his memory.

"_There's more to life than duty to the state."_

He stopped walking, only distantly aware that he had muttered the phrase out loud. And what had Garak called him in return, the first time that same phrase had passed his lips? _A victim of Federation dogma_… Perhaps not such an inaccurate assessment, after all.

* * *

"_Half rations?" Bashir glanced back at the line of pale, gaunt faces behind him - and then once more to the pebble-skinned visage of the guard. His pulse had accelerated so rapidly that he was astounded to find that heart still hadn't leapt from his body. Secretly, he trembled, terrified. But if the guards had noticed, they gave no sign of it - and he couldn't stay silent. Not this time._

_The prisoners of Barrack Six were barely managing as it was. Even with his Klingon pride to aid him, Martok could not fight the Jem'Hadar on half rations. Others, including himself, were already looking far too thin. And as for Tain…_

_Tain was dying. Fighting for every moment of survival, true, but there was no more denying the inevitable. Without the proper medical care, his life would end in less than a week. And Julian's struggles were useless. He would not be able to rescue Tain now - not when all he could scavenge were a few thin bandages, a blade that he was managing by some miracle to keep dry and nearly clean, and a single vial of weak antiseptic that was only marginally better than water._

_If things became truly desperate, he could still pass along some of his own rations to the others, but he had little chance of ever getting away with that. Martok had already caught him trying to do so twice._

_Ikat'ika's eyes - the colour of a trace of sky that might partially show itself from behind a thin, grey cloud - regarded the Human with cold disdain._

"_Doctor." That was a Klingon's strong hand upon his arm. The general's voice had turned to a cautionary growl, and even their Breen companion, who rarely paid any obvious attention to his fellow prisoners, was sitting upright and watching the drama with interest. Having caught Bashir's attention, Martok shook his head._

_But no. He didn't understand. Even if they never escaped from their chill confinement - as the thick-set general still hoped they might, Julian Bashir was a doctor. To give in now would be to deny that knowledge._

"_You can't do this."_

"_The Vorta has ordered half rations for all prisoners," the bulky, reptilian soldier repeated. "So this is what you will eat."_

"_I don't _care _what the Vorta…"_

_He gasped, choking, clutching his belly as he doubled over - and just as suddenly dry retching as the butt of a rifle jabbed hard against his unprotected torso. Another blow came down upon his back, expelling the air from his lungs before he was able to muster a cry._

_Forcing his eyes to open, even as he struggled for breath, he found the blurry outlines of his cell mates' faces. They watched from beyond the booted feet of a Jem'Hadar, their expressions ranging from concern to stoicism, to open horror._

"_Kill him," growled Ikat'ika. The soldier beside him obediently shifted his gun to aim at the doctor's head._

"_No."_

_Another set of feet positioned themselves directly between the swamp-grey boots of the guards. Smaller this time, and wrapped in dark leather. With the cold floor still painful against his skin, and both arms wrapped around his abused and queasy stomach, Bashir forced his gaze further upwards - until it settled on the sour-cream complexion of the Vorta overseer._

_Deyos stared down at the man at his feet before turning deliberately to his First. "We need this one alive."_

_Satisfied with Ikat'ika's automatic compliance, he cocked his head to study the prisoner. "Solitary," he decided after no more than a momentary pause._

_Two pairs of large, coarse hands hauled Bashir roughly up by the elbows. He sagged forward with an involuntary grunt of protest, alarmed to find himself still hunched like a weak old man. But now on his feet, he could at least snatch a glance at the worried faces behind him. He suspected, without having to ask, that it would not be long before the other prisoners gave him up for dead_.

* * *

Julian jerked back with a jolt of surprise, and an even more startled yelp from the woman in front of him. But it wasn't until his heart had calmed again that he realised, he already knew who she was. "I…" The same green-shirted ensign backed away, lowering her gaze and blushing slightly. Her skin turned to a shade of whitish pink. "Sorry. Hi."

Again, that strand of straight black hair had fallen down across her eyes. She brushed it away with slender fingers.

"Ensign…" What was her name again? He focused hard for a passing moment. "…Tigan, wasn't it? Ezri Tigan."

"You remembered," the ensign exclaimed, answered by a shrug - the same gesture he might have used before his secret was public knowledge.

"I suppose I just have a good memory." One more thing his parents had purchased for him: The dubious ability to recall every name and number on every list he'd ever seen.

Tigan was fidgeting, as though unsure of exactly where her hands belonged - but then she finally clasped them together at the central point of her lower back. Her clear blue eyes sparkled with reflected artificial light. A soft, vaguely nervous chuckle hovered in the air between them, its echo lingering for little more than a second before fading to the irretrievable past.

_What's that all about_? Julian held his breath, suddenly uneasy.

"Well, I won't keep you." He slipped quietly past her, nodding as politely as he could, but had only taken three more steps before he turned again. "Do you think…?"

He stopped, realising that Ensign Tigan had also stumbled through the beginnings of a nervous query. "Go ahead."

"I was just wondering, were you trying to get anywhere in particular?" she inquired. "It's just that there's nothing over there except for a couple of meeting rooms and one other that used to be Stellar Cartography."

"I'm not really sure," admitted Bashir. He hadn't given much thought to where he expected his journey to take him, content instead to continue walking like an aimless ghost. He shifted forward to peer both ways along the corridor - realising only then that his stomach had long since started to growl.

"I was thinking of getting something to eat." He paused. "Perhaps you might know…?"

"Sure," agreed Tigan. She flashed him a grin that caused the blue of her eyes to sparkle like gemstones, and strode back to where he'd left the turbolift behind him. "There is one place I could show you. It's not far."

* * *

The sounds of the café were energetic, but subdued. Julian remembered how the first round of arranged, formulaic conversations had been with Counsellor Dion, a lifetime ago on Deep Space Nine. The ache in his bones was so heavy and constant, like a stone across his shoulders, that he was unable to distinguish whether it had ever relented - or whether perhaps he had just grown so used to feeling this way that he could no longer have imagined any other.

It was strange how little Ensign Tigan resembled others of her profession, even Hsu Mae, her own superior on board this ship. Or could it simply be his feelings that were different? Perhaps it was the knowledge that she was still not quite a full counsellor, or more likely that the two of them had met by chance - without some preset arrangement, appointment, or agenda. Whatever the reason, he was comfortable with her, allowing them an easy interaction - a brief respite from all that was forced or officious.

Carefully, he steered away from any personal information, revealing as little of his story as was politic. The state of the Federation, inconsequential technical aspects of the latest ship designs, the particulars of his companion's early life - in a large house above one of the Sapporo Systems most successful industrial mines. These were all far easier topics - but still he grew increasingly anxious with every moment of their exchange. He could not spend forever trying to edge the conversation away from himself.

"So what _were _you doing earlier?" Tigan asked finally, leaning forward to sip her shallow glass of iced tea.

Bashir shrugged. "Walking. Thinking."

Once, he might have welcomed the chance to speak. So many details of his young life were a perfect means - he had thought - either to enhance his own self image, or to prevent the wrong people from wanting to know. So long ago, he barely recognised the excitable twenty-something year old man at the centre of these distant memories.

He watched Tigan's hands as they repeatedly turned the clear brown liquid, together with its container, once, twice, three times around on the table's almost sterile surface.

"About your friends?"

Julian pushed back a frown, uncertain of where this dark-haired ensign could have met either Garak or Miles. But then, they had been on the ship for several days. Rumours could travel anywhere. Especially in an enclosed community like a starship.

Or a space station. O'Brien had not seemed to happy about the idea of seeing Captain Sisko. Garak had already mentioned that the Chief was still working feverishly on the runabout, checking everything to be sure that there was not a scratch to be found.

"I hope I didn't get them into too much trouble." Julian kept his voice light, but looked away, discovering that he was nervously grasping one of his own hands with the other.

"What makes you say that?"

There it was again - the sharp twist of suspicion, that hint of something further below the surface of her words. Bashir studied her thoughtfully. "No reason," he responded. "It's nothing at all. Just a thought."

He flashed her a hurried smile. "Well, thank you for the company, but I'd better not keep you too long from your duties."

"I've been off duty for half an hour already," Tigan promised in the same clear, pleasant voice.

"Ah." Bashir raised his eyebrows. "So you chose to share you free time with a stranger you happened to meet in Sickbay."

"I suppose." She didn't even hesitate. "But if half of what I've read about your captain is true, he certainly seems like the kind who would understand. And your friends must be able to take care of themselves pretty well, or they would never have gotten out of as many scrapes as they have."

"Well - that's something," muttered Julian. But a further thought still nagged at the edge of his awareness. He was taking far too long to work out what that might be.

The answer came to him with the force of a colliding shuttle. He looked once more towards the wide-eyed Trill, so quickly that he regretted the sudden movement - and found himself wishing that the pounding in his head would stop. _Read about_…?

"How much do you know?" he accused, his voice hard-set, clouded with a moderate but unmistakeable trace of hostility.

"Not a lot." Tigan hesitated, and shifted back as if to dodge the intensity of his suspicions. "Just… Just the basics."

"The… The _basics_." Strange. For a moment he may even have forgotten that she was just another counsellor. Nodding quietly to himself, Julian curled his lips into a bitter sneer. "How?"

The answer was reluctant, delayed - and accompanied by a soft, almost apologetic sigh. "I read your profile."

"Oh. Wonderful."

"You have to believe me - it wasn't anything…"

"What did you find?" The cold, defensive edge had returned to his voice. "Was it informative? Did it leave you wanting to learn a bit more? Perhaps you could set up a tidy little case study. Make a name for yourself in some highbrow medical journal. Quite an opportunity - isn't it - for a counsellor in training?"

With a tiny gasp of anxiety, the pale skinned Trill shook her head. "It's not like that at all," she insisted, her words pitched high. "I was curious. That's all. Just…"

"…Curious," Bashir finished for her.


	29. x4

_"__We__'__ll be meeting the _Defiant _soon,__"__ Kalandra had told him less than a minute before his release. Her soft, husky voice remained as light as she could make it, but there was also something very deliberate in her air of self-control. __"__If you need to get anything done in the meantime, now__'__s the time to do it.__"_

_Bashir recognised what she was offering. A brief respite from the attentions of others - a moment of freedom, possibly even some privacy before having to answer to his former captain, and finally to Starfleet Command._

What if I were to ask for a console? _It was an appealing idea. Access to a Starfleet database__…__ Wasn__'__t that what he had wanted from the start? He could get the information he needed, without having to bother anyone on Deep Space Nine._

_But no matter how secretive he attempted to be, no attempt to access information would pass by the Destiny's medical staff without somebody noticing. What exactly did he want to know? And why? The beginnings of a request stuck inexorably in his throat._

Please. No questions.

_Instead, Bashir hook his head with a small, heavy smile. "Thank you, Irina. Really. You've been wonderful."_

Far better than I deserve.

"_Well just remember not to push yourself too hard." The doctor's voice turned just as quickly to blunt steel, as though to scold him in advance. "Don't try anything unless you're sure you feel up to it."_

_Julian inclined his head again, the smile on his face now mildly ironic. "I promise to give it my very best shot." He had no doubt that someone would notice if he disobeyed._

* * *

The blood rushed to Julian's face, suddenly hot with betrayal. "You might as well say." He spoke quietly - mumbling as much as he challenged - and frowned at both of his tightly clasped hands. "Who's idea was this? Just tell me who set it up."

"Nobody."

"_Tell _me."

"_Nobody_." Tigan's second reply was noticeably more forceful. "I swear this isn't a set up. I mean, I totally understand why you would think so, but…"

"So. This was all your idea?"

"I thought it was yours as well."

Bashir's anger instantly deflated, giving way to an heavy, crushing guilt - and not undeserved, he thought with contrition. At exactly what point had he become so distrusting?

"I…" he began apologetically. "I'm sorry if I offended you. I didn't mean to accuse."

Twisting away from the table, he rose to his feet - stumbled a little - and crossed the distance to the nearest shielded portal. He turned around, noticing that the Trill had come to stand less than an arm's reach behind him. "So I guess there's not a lot about me that you don't already know."

Tigan said nothing.

The next words to emerge were diluted behind a soft, tired sigh. "What's over, is over." Bashir spoke more to break the silence than to tell of anything that mattered. "Time to put the past behind us, isn't that right?"

And there was still the Defiant to consider. His old ship, now less than an hour from their location. Again, he felt his head beginning to shake. He should have been looking forward to seeing them again, shouldn't he?

"There's nothing wrong with me," he muttered. "Really."

Tigan's expression remained dubious. "You've been a doctor, haven't you?"

"Thanks for the reminder. Did you read _that _in my file as well."

The petite young woman ignored the poison behind his response. "Then you already have the experience to know," she told him. Just as so many had before her. "People don't suddenly become 'fine' the moment they say they are."

"I wish everyone would stop saying that."

"Why? Because it's true?"

Fuelled by a flush of anger, Julian opened his mouth for an automatic, immediate denial. But he was even quicker to hesitate. Choking on unspoken words, he pictured himself stumbling through yet another stream of half truths and meaningless assurances. Perhaps it was better to find that nothing was forthcoming.

He shook his head, resting one palm against a gleaming decorative column. For a moment, he was distracted by the subtle, computerised patterns that shifted smoothly across its surface - but then he turned to look at the near total blackness outside, and froze.

A flash of purple light passed by in the distance, so quickly that it took all of his enhanced vision and perceptions to see that there had been anything there at all. Running his mind over all remaining possibilities - and just as quickly discounting every one - he realised with despair that there was one thing only that this outside movement could have been.

_They're back_, he thought, staring at the darkness beyond the clear, bright lights of the café. _Just like last time_.

For a moment he was frozen, struggling with all his will to force himself to move away - not to allow anyone to see his weak limbs tremble.

Exactly _like last time_.

A small, pale hand touched his arm. Bashir jumped, startled, and jerked his head around - finally recalling that he was supposed to take an inward breath. He hadn't even realised that he'd stopped.

"You didn't see that?" he gasped hoarsely, and watched as Ezri Tigan turned once more to look out of the portal.

_But then_, he thought, bringing himself to a halt before his doubts could run too far. There was nothing at the window now. Only the same scattered, distant stars. _It could still be a mistake. Maybe you really _did _just imagine_…

"Oh, God--" breathed Julian at the sight of the ship now visibly turning and positioning itself clearly within his line of sight. Every glowing streak on its surface extended like the touch of a vengeful deity. He watched the space beyond the portal as the sharp-edged, flat and hard metal shape glided smoothly back to face the _Destiny_. _But they're not firing_. Even the solidity of the floor seemed to shift precariously beneath the soles of his feet. _Why_?

A shrill noise filled the space around them, shattering his hopes like delicate crystals on a hard, stone floor. Ezri looked in several directions - to where the other Starfleet officers were already abandoning drinks and meals, and striding in a direct line towards the exit. She opened her mouth, returning her attention to her taller companion even as she continued to glance at the rest of the café. But all she could manage was a wordless stammer, with no success in finding what she had to say.

"You have to go," guessed Bashir. Wrapping one hand as tightly as he could around the other, he did his best to squeeze the tremor away. There was no mistaking that rising mechanical sound.

_Red alert_.

Tigan nodded, an action which Julian mirrored a lot more slowly, still furiously kneading the fingers of both hands. "Everyone's going to battle stations," he said. "I understand."

He was concerned to hear that a soft gasp still clouded his voice.

"Sir? Ensign? We really do need to clear this area."

He looked around at the sound of a new, only slightly familiar voice at his ear - and realised that a short, brusque Human had been trying for some time to get their attention. "Quickly." The café manager was a smallish man in a green and olive suit - with a ridiculously thick and tangled moustache concealing much of his mouth. He was pale and worried, but efficient in his efforts to get everyone to relative safety. As if this emergency was nothing more than a temporary break in routine.

Julian stepped away awkwardly, concentrating to keep his balance, and cursed the unsteadiness in his limbs. _Not now_. He caught a moment of uncertainty as it passed across Tigan's expression, one of her brows twitching into an intently watchful frown.

"Anything I can do to…?" he began, forcing himself to turn around on shaky legs - but found that he was steadying himself with both hands atop the nearest table.

"It's nothing," he promised his onlookers, both of whom were still at his side. And yet, he could not stop himself from glancing repeatedly at the ominous glow of the Jem'Hadar ship. His voice was as anxious as either of theirs had been. Aside from ship's Security, the café manager himself, and a few young waiters remaining to help with the evacuation, he and Ezri were the only ones still to leave. Easy targets in the well-lit café.

Tigan glanced again behind her as the last of the officers departed through the double doors. "Come on, Julian," she encouraged with a colder than usual hand upon the Human's left wrist. "We should probably both get out of…"

A flash of superheated energy burned glaring images against the backs of their eyes, only moments before the beam tore along the metal flank of the ship.

* * *

Chief Petty Officer Miles O'Brien was on his knees before an open panel, squinting in concentration - even while his expression turned to half a grimace as he contemplated meeting again with Captain Sisko. _But that's not important_.

It must have been the twentieth time he'd reminded himself of that point. He could deal with Sisko's retribution, as long as he knew that he'd helped to accomplish what he and Garak had set out to do. Nodding quietly to himself, the Chief blinked away the moderate soreness that was already wearying his eyes. Back to work.

He tensed at the red alert siren sounding in his ears. His blood turned rapidly hot and cold, a current of static sliding all the way across his skin. Cursing the pain and sudden annoyance, he gave himself barely a moment to replace the panel. As always, the repeated rising tones were shrill enough to stab. The blood had only begun to flow back to his legs as he hurried away through the runabout door.

Crossing the flat, open floor with a speed borne of anxiety, O'Brien glanced briskly around him. But with no view port set into the walls of the shuttle bay, and no-one in sight that he could possibly ask, he would most likely take some time to discover the cause of the wailing siren.

As though sensing his need to pass through without delay, the doors slid open with O'Brien less than a metre from the exit. Leaving the runabout behind, he glanced for a moment at the multitude before him - officers hurrying in both directions - and noted the excited tension in the air. No-one spoke, and what little sound their footfalls may have caused was masked beneath the klaxons' persistent call.

_Right_, O'Brien thought. He wasn't a member of the _Destiny_'s crew, only a visitor aboard somebody else's ship - but he was still a Starfleet engineer. And all the Starfleet engineers he'd ever known lived by one simple maxim. If there was still a chance he could be useful, he had to take it.

Pausing no longer than it took him to find a break in the crowd, he started towards Engineering.

"Chief," said a voice at his ear, moments before O'Brien caught a glimpse of a stocky grey, black and green shape at the very edge of his vision. A shock to his muscles caused them to jerk involuntarily - the primitive, animal part of his brain reacting before his frontal cortex had a chance.

"Garak!" he shouted, the tone of his voice turning even the tailor's name into something between an accusation and a startled expletive. "Bloody Hell - don't you _ever_… Where'd _you _come from?"

The Cardassian remained infuriatingly unfazed by either the Chief's tirade or the alert sirens around them. "Merely endeavouring to see what assistance I might render."

_I doubt anyone needs their pants let down right now_, O'Brien thought, but kept the remark to himself.

"I thought you were with Julian," he almost accused.

Garak glanced at two passing officers as he spoke. "Ah, yes. Well I was, but he and I parted company some thirty minutes ago. His idea, not mine. And speaking of ideas, any thoughts on what's going on around here?"

O'Brien could scarcely believe he'd even heard the question. "You don't know?"

"Given our current position I would assume it has something to do with the Dominion or possibly the Cardassians. But none of our friendly hosts seem to know much more than you or I. And the computer isn't exactly forthcoming either."

"You hacked into the ship's computer?"

"I may have stumbled across an obliging terminal here and there." Garak was already turning away. "But the two of us had better find some way to make ourselves useful, or find somewhere more appropriate to stand. I assume you were headed for Engineering?"

Grinding his teeth as he muttered some variety of silent, wordless curse, O'Brien hurried after his retreating companion. _Now what_? he despaired. Was he going to have to keep an additional watch on Garak as well?


	30. x5

"What are they doing?" gasped Ensign Nguyen, staring in horrified awe at the Dominion ship now directly in front of the Starfleet vessel's bow. _You ought to be used to his by now_, he reproached himself. After all, he was an officer now, not some raw seventeen year old Academy freshman. And they had faced the same challenge many times before - even on this one mission.

Slowly, he shook his head, but scarcely noticed until many long seconds had passed. His hands tensed to claws above the helm controls. "It's almost as if they want to look us in the eye."

Seated beside the captain, Commander T'Parn raised a single wry eyebrow. "Unlikely," she commented.

"Then why else would they just be sitting there like that--" demanded Nguyen, his voice tremulous. "Unless they're waiting for something?"

"Settle down, Ensign." That was Captain Raymer's calm, authoritative voice. And yet, the accustomed severity carried some relief from the slow, ongoing march of time - even as the youthful helmsman was silenced. "Trust me. As soon as anything happens, you'll know."

* * *

_Fire against metal_. Julian felt his stomach twist and churn as the light beyond the window flared again.

The cries of others in the room were already too familiar, rising quickly - immediately - to screams. The floor surged beneath them as the _Destiny_'s inertial dampeners reeled and settled only by marginal luck. Bashir staggered against a table, its corner colliding sharply with his hip.

_Fire against metal_, he thought again - far more intently this time - and caught Ensign Tigan reflexively by one arm. Her hair fell over her eyes as she righted herself against her companion. When she finally stepped back, her own face was every bit as pale as the ship's inner walls, but with no less a reservoir of hard determination behind her eyes.

The next impact jolted them both immediately to the floor. Clutching one elbow, Julian forced himself to his knees before he cautiously flexed the fingers of one hand. Lights sputtered everywhere around them, flashing in an uneven rhythm like the neural readings of a man close to death. Beside Julian, Ezri also rose unsteadily, and started to cough.

They acknowledged each other with a split-second glance, lasting no longer than it took to see that neither one had been too badly injured. A fresh bruise had darkened across Tigan's right cheek, clearly visible even in the sudden half-light. She reached up briefly to touch her skin with careful fingers. But no obvious pain was showing in the young Trill's movements.

Noises still exploded in their heads, and harsh, flashing lights now dominated their vision. The _Destiny _was fighting back, letting forth her own powerful stream of fire to dim the glittering backdrop of stars. But it would be a difficult task for her to target a rapidly moving Jem'Hadar attack ship. Bashir remained in a crouch, listening to the successive impacts - and yet, each was noticeably less ferocious than the previous ones had been.

"They must be coming from a different angle," he guessed. It made sense. Dominion vessels were deceptively smaller than a starship, but far more manoeuvrable. If the onslaught continued much longer, it wouldn't matter where the Dominion concentrated its torpedos. Julian wrapped both arms around his torso, praying for some relief from the stench of burnt metal, and the deep, inward ache of bile forced upward into his chest and throat.

Clutching a nearby pillar with both arms, Tigan was shouting at him. The rapid flash of lights from outside illuminated one side of her face. But Julian shook his head. Whatever she had wanted to say was drowned out by enemy fire, if not the by rapid thundering of his heart. He was more than convinced that it had skipped several beats already.

A change in the rhythm of each sporadic burst of weaponry drew Bashir's attention again towards the window. Light streaked from the upper surface of a ship dropping from warp, which immediately doubled back to position itself between the USS _Destiny _and her attacker.

_The Defiant_! Julian gasped, only just succeeding in cutting off the sound before it turned automatically to a sharp, impulsive cackle. _It's here_.

He twisted around on all fours, craning his head so far that he felt the pull on his neck muscles - but could not so much as glance away from the searing lights of battle. A fresh stream of plasma surged from the Dominion craft, slamming with explosive force against the _Defiant_'s shields. The Jem'Hadar circled again, until both their ship and Sisko's disappeared from sight. But both veered back around in less time than it took to wonder where they had gone.

People screamed, the sound of their cries abruptly and horribly cut short, but the fabric of their surroundings continued to fall in an avalanche of tortured metal. Bashir started at the movement of another person dropping to his side. Tigan steadied herself with both hands as she came up beside him. "Are you all right?" she shouted in his ear.

But a glance at his shorter companion showed her gazing just as fearfully through the portal, squinting as she flinched from the outside view - and from the heat of falling metal all around them. Continued flashes of torpedo light gave way to something still brighter - a sheer burning glow that Julian had witnessed too many times already, even before beginning of the war. The expanding legacy of a starship torn open along its hull - as if an angry god had slashed through the metal exterior to gut the vessel and claim all souls within.

* * *

Corinna felt a sudden jolt all the way up from the surface of the deck, and through the marrow of her bones. And just as suddenly, her heart was racing, fuelled by the soft roar of something unseen. She gripped the table's edge.

"That sounded like photons," said Jadzia.

_Photons_? Acid rose inside Corinna's stomach. The ship felt diminutive. Vulnerable as a log on a storm-ridden ocean. _What's that mean_? _Torpedos_? She cast a longing glance towards the exit, each sound seeming to pound against her back as much as it did her ears. The call to safety screamed in her blood, a promise from somewhere far beyond the boundaries of the mess hall.

Safety? Where was _that_? Yet another collision hit the ship like the blade of a vengeful sword, and their civilian passenger let out a short, hysterical cry of alarm - which came as a panicked laugh. As frightening as it was, this room was her fortress, the closest thing to sanctuary that she was ever likely to find.

"Sisko to Dax," came a voice over the communications system. Corinna turned fretfully towards her companion.

Dax was prompt in her reaction, acknowledging the communiqué with brisk, military efficiency.

"We need you on the bridge."

Before she left, however, the commander rested a pale hand on Corinna's shoulder, and met the other woman's searching, still frightened eyes. The expression on her own face promised clarity, even in the heated chaos now erupting all around them.

"Wait here," she said with steady confidence. "I'll see what I can find out."

* * *

An officer from the _Destiny_'s Security detachment was at the door, pounding upon it with a single closed fist. He stopped, rubbing the same hand where he had beaten it a little too hard - and shouted something into his combadge. Whatever his words, they travelled no further than the immediate space around him. But another frustrated strike on the door from the officer's open palm told Bashir all that he need to know. The attack had ceased, but those still in the café were no less trapped.

His progress across the floor was hindered by an oddly disconnected sensation, a momentary notion that his brain had relinquished control of his own limbs. Even with the barely functioning artificial light, his eyes located people, confused and anxious, eyes gleaming brightly in the gloom. Occasional shapes indicated still more figures - lying, shattered, on the floor.

Bashir paused to shake his head, ignoring the way his surroundings rocked unsteadily in response. If the faces of Security had told him anything, it was that no-one was about to get away, and equally, nobody else would come to their aid. Not for quite some time. People were trapped, he confirmed without hesitation. Several were hurt. And there was no doctor in sight - only him.

If anyone wanted to punish him for overstepping his boundaries, then the Federation was welcome to concern itself with acceptable practice and other such matters. Bashir would not object, but only after the immediate crisis was over.

Two people had been killed in an instant, flung back like falling tenpins to be cracked apart by the corners of sharp, heavy furniture. One was briefly attended by a quick-witted Security officer, who crawled around the rubble to search for some indication of life - then bowed his head, pressing two interlocked fists against his own brow, and finally brushed an open palm across the victim's eyes.

The other body was far more clearly shattered, tucked beneath a nearby table, and with his neck at a grotesquely acute angle. A clear sign of an irreversible break. Tigan's hair blanketed her face as she crouched forward to cover the dead man with the nearest available cloth. But even this seemed ridiculously small - leaving his legs and feet entirely exposed.

"It's over," a voice said, wavering uncertainly even as the speaker tried to maintain an air of reassuring calm. "We'll be safe in here for the time being, as long as everybody remains calm."

A young woman emerged from around a corner, looking pained. But she nodded solemnly, waving away the first offer of assistance. Even from a distance, Julian could see that - at worst - she had suffered no more than what looked like a minor fracture of one wrist. She cradled it in her other hand, maintaining a grim expression as she moved to check on the only other seriously wounded person in the room.

A round-faced waitress with thin, near-black hair had been pulled into a corner beneath a bench. Her naturally pallid face was close to white, accentuating a mottled blackish violet bruise which extended across a third of her forehead. "It's all right," Julian told the girl's more slender friend, ignoring the deep hot-and-cold agony that flared beneath his own muscles whenever he moved, and the sudden flush of heat across his face. Perhaps he shouldn't be attempting this at all, he thought - but forced his doubts aside. If not him, then who else?

"It's all right. I'm here to help."

The injured woman raised her hands as a barrier. Large eyes opened - dark as a Betazoid's - but did not focus immediately on any specific place. "Relax," Julian urged her. "Don't be frightened. My name's Julian. I'm here to help you."

"I'm…" The same young woman paused as though to gather her thoughts. "Ranna."

Her companion's cat-green eyes continued to watch those around them, gleaming and frightened in the darkness. Slender white fingers tightened their grip on Ranna's shoulder, and Bashir met her brief, silent gaze for only a moment. He suspected that this freckled was drawing as much solace from the steady embrace than she was able to pass to her friend.

"Does it hurt anywhere?" he inquired, somewhat breathlessly. But his own light-headedness would have to pass. Hopefully before it was noticed by anybody else.

"More numb than sore…" the girl responded.

Bashir nodded. _Better luck than the dead_.

"I need to ask a favour of you." he said, turning to see Ezri kneel on the floor beside him. His head was pounding as though from a night spent in dry storage, throat aching, tongue swollen and barely able to shape the sounds he wanted. Getting to his feet was a greater task than he trusted himself to perform.

"Do you…" He paused, swallowing hard and struggling to give some shape to his wayward thoughts. "Could you find me a spare medkit? Or if not that, then perhaps a damp cloth, and a mat of some kind?"

The ensign frowned uncertainly. "Are you sure that you…?"

"Of course." Even through the irritable reply, Bashir was careful to keep both his tightly clenched hands from sight.

Still dubious, Tigan sighed. But the she cast a brief, querying glance at the skinny, rattish face of the café manager.

"There might be something tucked behind the counter." The man's bushy moustache stirred with each word, peculiarly reminiscent of some variety of living entity.

"That should do," Bashir agreed, reaching up briefly to rub his temple. His voice was noticeably hoarse, but he was relieved to find that it still functioned to some degree.

As Ensign Tigan scampered away, accompanied by the thicker-set of both their gold-shirted companions, Bashir turned back to Ranna. "It's going to be all right," he whispered.

But the youthful waitress was frowning doubtfully. Her dark eyes studied him in detail, and her voice had dropped to less than half normal volume. "You're scared too."

The contents of Julian's stomach twisted slowly as though to force themselves up into his throat. A cold, almost fluidic shudder ran all the way down from the top of his spine. "We all are," he admitted, catching himself, but kept his voice deliberately light and comforting. "But everyone's safe, for now."

_Safe_… An unseen vice clenched around his torso, forcing the breath from him. Somehow, not a single one of his subsequent thoughts could be moulded into an appropriate response.

"But that's not all," continued Ranna. "There's something else…"

Her words were like the shock of a forcefield current, so sudden in its intensity that for a moment the tall man jerked backward - as though from a mild electrocution. Seeing the change in her rescuer's eyes - perhaps even sensing a tidal wave of emotion, Ranna winced, and averted her gaze. "Sorry."

Bashir shook his head. "Don't be."

Movement on the periphery of his vision came as another brief surprise. Bashir turned in time to see the manager seat himself on the nearest available patch of floor, a hard edged case clasped in both coarse hands. He stared at the semi-reflective surface as though he'd never seen its equal - and glanced up again to find the manager studying him, looking troubled.

_No. That's not important. Focus_!

Julian returned to his task, forestalling the question that he sensed was about to come. Accepting the medkit that the man had passed to him, he positioned it on the floor only inches from his knees. He fumbled with the locking mechanism, hands cold and numb as his fingers slipped uselessly over the delicate casing. Forcing a breath, he doubled over, and tucked them beneath his arms - shuddering almost too badly to move. But he had to. Ranna was counting on him. Soon enough, they would all be counting on him.

"Not _now_!" he hissed through clenched teeth.

A pair of hands reached past him and clicked open the silver-grey case. He turned in slow motion towards a soft querying voice in his ear - speaking his name.

"Tell us what to do."

Bashir hesitated as for a moment, his view of the medkit's contents shifted and blurred, splitting into a pair of identically fuzzy images. But the speaker had been clear enough to recognise as Ensign Ezri Tigan.

His left hand rested on the bulky form of a neural modulator, confirming by touch that he had located the required instrument. Concentrating hard, he managed to grasp it for long enough to extract it from the snug-fitting case. "Here." He was relieved to have found it at least - most standard emergency kits outside of a medical bay carried no more than the most basic assortment of supplies. "You… You activate it. Have to switch it on… Like this."

He mimed the correct motion with his thumb, and watched as Ezri mimicked it - to far greater effect. A neon blue light appeared, flickering slightly at the tip of the active module. There was something distinctly artificial about the glowing beam - but steady, like an urban nightscape in some centuries old commercial district back on Earth. Julian considered retrieving the device from the ensign, but just as quickly dismissed the idea. His hands already shook like those of a frail old man.

_But you don't have to do this yourself. _The knot in his stomach uncoiled a little with this forceful reminder. _Just tell the others what they need to know, and they'll be fine_.

Ezri set to work, faltering slightly - out of her depth - but determined to force her way past even the threat of failure. _She's probably had some basic training, then_, Julian guessed. _But not a lot of real experience_. Watching in silence, he extracted a slim, rectangular tricorder. Standard issue, he realised. The familiar dimensions lent some much needed certainty.

"It's looking good," he said, holding it gingerly in front of him, and concentrating hard upon the display. Both of his hands were clamped around the edges. "No - uh - no broken bones. There's a mild concussion, but that should be pretty straightforward…"

_All she needs is a little rest_. That was what he'd been trying to say - the thoughts still reluctant to force themselves through his mouth. _Rest_.

He did not need Ranna's telepathic intuition to suspect that the diluted smile she cast his way was as much for his benefit as it was for her own. Perhaps he ought to assist the others in shifting the young woman over to the mat. But subsequent attempts to move were of little use, as the muscles of his arms and legs had ceased responding to the commands of his own brain.

Somebody removed the tricorder from his lap. It had fallen there, he realised - slipped from his fingers, and he had forgotten that it was still open in his hand. He looked to find a pair of clear blue eyes nearby, and opened his mouth to form a response. But he was dangerously giddy, eyes never opening half way, and sensing the discomfort of heat beneath his skin.

Sounds still reached him, but only as if through the muffling effect of several layers of thick felt blankets. Voices, sounding far away. Whispered, comforting. But also quietly anxious.

"I have to…" Bashir muttered urgently, trying to indicate the place where he had been. Every word stabbed in his throat, even as his voice was struggling to emerge.

_Have to what_?

"All right," said a soft, semi-musical voice at his ear. "Let us take care of Ranna now."

Trembling turned to shuddering as a firm hand across his shoulder guided him quietly but insistently away from the scene.

Who was that? The speaker had settled him into a remote corner. Somewhere quiet, away from the crowd. But what of those hands still holding him captive? He shied from their touch, anticipating the onset of another interrogation.

"_No_. D-Don't…"

"Shh," the same quiet voice hastened to reassure him. The hands remained. Bashir's body curled instinctively around itself - pressing further into the same tiny space. He no longer saw the eyes of the others. But he knew that he was shivering, and with little chance of relief from the ache that pierced him to his core. And with even clearer certainty, he knew that he was cold.


	31. x6

"Damage reports coming in now, Captain." Nguyen still felt a residual itch of adrenaline beneath his skin. But he still had duties. They gave him focus, a reason for clarity and control. He hoped, at least, that he had achieved some success at masking his emotions. "Decks five and six have already been sealed off and evacuated, and forcefields are holding. Security reports some damage to the forward saucer section. Sickbay confirms seven people dead and, uh…"

_Numbers, Ensign. Pull yourself together. They're just numbers._

"And what about the _Defiant_?"

"Still no sign on sensors, Captain." Ensign Leah Maloney sounded a little dazed an uncertain, even though she had insisted that the bright, shallow graze on her cheek and forehead was not enough to slow her down. Nguyen suspected that the only reason she remained on the bridge was because there were few others nearby with the qualifications to take her place.

Raymer let forth a sharp, hissing curse, and Nguyen turned to see his captain's lips still curled away from his tightly clenched teeth. "Sir, we still don't know that the second explosion _was _the _Defiant_," he pointed out. "It could just as easily have been…"

"_Thank _you." Captain Raymer's glaring eyes silenced Nguyen mid-sentence.

_Did I say something wrong_? The ensign cringed. Since leaving the relative security of the Academy far behind him, unspoken intricacies of bridge protocol were probably the most difficult of all to learn - and even more so on occasion than his final exams had been. But surely the captain could not fault his honesty… He had been speaking the truth, after all, and with no means to consult their faulty sensors, there could be no certainties beyond the outer hull.

He shuddered, feeling suddenly, horribly vulnerable, and with little idea that anyone would be close enough to come to their rescue. Their enemy was clever. They had taken out the larger ship's weapons and defences with remarkably little trouble. Advocate Nguyen - a short, whip-thin Human, whose hair had been flecked with silver long before its time - had expected his son to follow him into the legal profession. Possible even politics, but certainly he had never imagined that the boy would end up joining Starfleet. _But if I survive this long enough_, the ensign thought. _He might just start talking to me again Or something_.

"This is ridiculous," he told himself. They were no more exposed than they had been five minutes ago - but the damage to their ship had hardly been lessened in the time that had passed.

"What was that, Ensign?" The captain's voice was loud enough to startle Nguyen.

"Uh…" The ensign glanced nervously back over his shoulder. "I… Nothing of consequence, Sir."

Raymer's watched him for several long moments, but his scrutiny was silent - and ended with a barely visible introspective nod. He smiled tightly, and Nguyen finally let go of the breath he'd been holding in.

"Someone's hailing us, Captain." Maloney spoke suddenly, cutting through what remained of the anxieties in the air. She looked up, grinning. "It's the _Defiant_."

The captain strode instantly towards her. "Open a channel."

"I'm afraid I can only give you audio," the young woman told him apologetically.

A grim current of dark humour ran through Raymer's answer. "At this point, Leah, I'll take whatever I can get."

"Aye, Sir. Channel open."

Raymer stood a little straighter as he clutched the back of Maloney's chair. "This is Captain Raymer of the _Destiny_. Go ahead."

A clear baritone greeted them over the comm., although no face appeared to accompany it. "Sorry we took so long, Captain."

"You're no less welcome for that." None of the gravity was lost from Raymer's voice, but Nguyen was sure that he heard a trace of relief as well. "When this is over, I owe you a drink."

There was a pause, and finally, a response. "Mine's a Saurian brandy," came the same meticulously resonant voice. "We'll share it. And don't worry, Captain. We've got your backs for now."

* * *

"Tell me if I've heard this right." Sisko's brow furrowed shallowly as he stepped around in a small arc, and studied the face of his CMO. "You want to beam to the _Destiny _- now. Are you certain that's wise?"

Determination never wavered in Doctor Hayes' steel-grey eyes. "I don't know if it's _wise _or not, but there's precious little left for me to do on board this ship. Whereas, over there…"

"You think you can be of use - possibly even locate some of our people in the meantime?"

"The _Destiny _was far more damaged than we were in this attack," confirmed the doctor. "And they still have quite a few people unaccounted for. We don't know how many of those have been seriously injured."

Sisko was quiet as he absorbed the information. A whitish grey image took up over half of their forward view, deceptively serene, as though a smoothly drifting reminder that they were no longer travelling alone. One long, curving tear had opened beneath the _Destiny_'s saucer, abused and jagged metal, with pieces of debris tumbling eerily away from the wound. External light across the larger ship's hull was causing each fragment to flicker as it rolled, the white of each flat, broken surface contrasting starkly with the vacuum beyond it.

They reminded Sisko of a collection of dust motes, disturbed by a living breath and trapped in the glow of a planet's sun. The last report he'd received was that two of three of his previously missing men were secure and well and safely on board. But the same dull worry still twisted like a fist against Ben Sisko's gut. _His men_. The captain's mind had not allowed for any ambiguity in the matter.

Hayes went on, his words half-plea, half-debate. "I've already confirmed it with Doctor Kalandra. She understood that I would have to settle things with you - but she tells me they could use whatever help that they can get."

"All right," Sisko agreed - with no more token resistance than he had seriously expected of himself. "Contact us when you're ready to return."

In an instant, Dax's had also whipped around to face them. "Benjamin, perhaps I should…"

"Not this time, Old Man. I need you here."

Seeing the flash of disappointment behind the Commander's eyes - so subtle that it may well have eluded any other man - Sisko lowered his response to a kindly half-whisper. "I understand that you're eager to see the others again," he said. "But I need you to stay behind and watch for Dominion activity in case they decide to come after their friends. There are two ships counting on you now."

Dax sighed, turning back to her station, and the captain wondered if her look of quiet resignation had not grown a little heavier. No time to concern himself with that. The _Defiant_'s Science Officer would do her job.

Nodding to Hayes as the older man hurried to exit the bridge, Sisko called after him. "Good luck, Doctor."

* * *

"Still no word?"

Engineers, O'Brien knew from experience, bore no natural predisposition for patience. Ironic, wasn't it? In so many ways, and especially in a position where the demand for immediate results was so often thwarted by the temperamental and regularly contrary attitude of even Federation technology.

Glancing sidelong with just his eyes, O'Brien saw that he was not the only one whose attention was drawn to the Chief Engineer's exchange. His travelling companion had been watching the same conversation with clear, unsubtle interest. "Garak," he half warned - a low-voiced growl from the very depths of his throat. But the Cardassian responded with nothing more than a nod and a smile. The Chief glared darkly before returning to his original task of last-minute warp drive repairs. And - he was forced to admit, although only to himself - returning just as readily to his own silent eavesdropping.

"_Figured you could use an extra pair of hands," he had shouted above each seismic blast, and above the chorus of shouts from the Engineering team. Then he had glanced reluctantly over his shoulder, finally recalling that Garak was at his side. "…Or two."_

"_I may be only a simple tailor, Madam, but I am happy to provide any assistance that I can," Garak had added to O'Brien's offer. "And no doubt that you will be impressed with the acumen of my companion here."_

_And then, just two steps from the warp core, a panel had exploded outward - marked by a burst of blue-white sparks. Foul smelling, smoky vapours erupted from its belly as the core's own containment field sparked with the impact. A pair of engineers ducked only just in time, and even O'Brien felt another pair of hands catch him from behind as he winced reflexively and closed his eyes._

"_Fine!" Lieutenant Grisholm had shouted at them, but was already starting away towards the source of the damage. "We've got holes opening all over this ship and we're ten minutes from a warp core breach. If there's anything you can do to help us with _that_…"_

_O'Brien had clutched determinedly at his case full of tools, his mind already racing forward to every engineering trick he knew. "I can certainly try."_

Teresa Grisholm was only as tall as O'Brien's shoulders, a stocky woman with wild brown hair, and the determination of an avalanche. The hapless crewman standing before her responded with forced resolve - as though from an entire career of dodging heavy, tumbling boulders.

"Not yet." His pinched, vermillion face turned away as though he half expected to find more answers in the panel behind his shoulder. "We're still working on getting the primary sensor grid back on line."

"It's been half an hour already," Grisholm accused.

"I know, Lieutenant, but this is…"

"No excuses, Jarved. The captain's counting on us to deliver, and we've got to be able to access those rooms in the next five minutes. Got that?"

There was a brief pause - a silence filled by the tension of unspoken objections. It lasted for less than a moment, although the heavy mood took longer to fade. "Aye, Sir."

His back still to the scene, O'Brien raised an eyebrow.

The attack had stopped, but their efforts at disaster management maintained the same level of frenetic urgency. It was only a matter of time, before Captain Raymer would stop demanding answers over the communications channel, and show up at their door to demand them in person. The immediate danger had at least been allayed, but too many parts of the ship still remained inaccessible.

There was movement at the edge of his vision - and all voices stopped. "Garak!" hissed O'Brien, more sharply than he had the previous time.

Blithely ignoring the voice at his ear, Garak stepped forward. "Perhaps I could help."

* * *

Grumbling with a tide of rising annoyance, Julian scowled as he pushed away the strong, coarse fingers that had pressed against his neck. "Don't." To his relief, the cause of his irritation was sensible enough to oblige.

Eyes still resisting his attempts to open them fully, he scowled over one shoulder at the closest living person that he could see. His head throbbed with a pain like an all-night hangover. He squinted at the face in front of him, blinked until his mind was able to confirm what his eyes still persisted in telling him. The ache remained, but the outward expression he gave this other man had turned instead to a silent frown of perplexity.

_Monsters had leered from his dreams. Ghostly, ghastly childhood ogres, together in a confused and fluid carnival procession with several others from a far more recent day. For some reason, the half-seen Cardassian interrogator had stared with glowing sapphire eyes - elusive, barely formed shadows rising and retreating behind him to a place far beyond the stifling darkness._

_Voices echoed at the back of his ears, louder than whispers had any right to be. Their meaning was as hard to capture as hot smoke. A hot, acrid stench invaded his awareness. Something charred, although no longer aflame. It was the smell, and the throbbing spread from his temples all the way to his jaw, that had finally brought him to the reawakened awareness that some of what he sensed was real._

"Careful," cautioned the balding, ginger-haired doctor at his side. Briefly disregarding the sound of his voice, Bashir moved to push himself a little further away. But Nathan Hayes made no more attempts to narrow the distance between them.

Bashir glanced in several directions, his mind stubbornly refusing to allow him any easy explanations. They were still on the _Destiny _- in the same large room, but the casualties of the latest attack had already been transferred away to some other part of the ship. Those who were well enough to stay out of sickbay were tended by tired junior officers, or helping to take stock and to clear away the most intrusive debris.

And, Hayes…? He didn't belong on this ship - did he?

The answer came with some delay - taking the form of another dim and shapeless memory. "The _Defiant_? Is everyone all right? I thought for a moment you might have been…"

Hayes smiled grimly. "She put in quite a performance." His voice was hard and unsavoury, as though trying to expel a less than palatable taste from the back of his mouth. Julian sighed.

"Right, then. Let's hear it."

"Hear what?" But the other man's response sounded as much like a challenge as it had ever been a query.

"You were about to tell me what an idiot I've been."

Hayes shifted his position, jaw set, as he looked directly into Bashir's eyes. "Not in so many words," he confessed. "But the truth is, you're not entirely off the mark."

Bashir snorted, with only slightly less bitterness than he had anticipated. "I thought as much."

"Why is that?"

_Perhaps because I _am _an idiot_. Eyes narrowed, Julian contemplated the older doctor's weathered face. _Or maybe it's never been any other way. Who's to say that all those enhancements ever cured anything_?

Instead of answering, he rubbed an open palm across his face until he felt the rush of returning sensation. But Nathan's level stare remained constant, never once releasing him from its hold.

"I know that Doctor Kalandra and Doctor Sonarron have both been telling you not to expend this much energy so soon," he accused. "I know that you were supposed to be going easy on yourself - and what's the first thing you do?"

_The Dominion's fault_, Julian scarcely found the energy to say out loud. _Not mine_.

Sighing inaudibly through his nose, Hayes passed along a flat, recently unsealed packet, forced open marginally at a corner. The smell within was potently unmistakeable. Accepting it in both hands, Bashir flinched from the accumulated stink of something dry, enclosed, and heavily salted.

"Field rations?"

"I don't want to see you trying anything more substantial just yet," the pale, middle aged doctor insisted. A shift in his expression served to accentuate the hollowness around his eyes. Nathan Hayes had always looked a little tired in Julian's recollections of the man - but now even more so, and with a subtle swelling where the skin of his eyelids was darkened, stained as though with ink, and more heavily creased than it had been the last time they had met.

But he still managed to smile at the younger man's aversion. "Eat," he commanded.

Reluctantly, Bashir forced a small bite of the bland tasting rations to pass between his teeth. Just as he anticipated, the contents had a dry, rough texture that was oddly akin to chewing on his boots. Transferring much of his weight to the hard surface supporting his back, he noted that his hands' feeble tremor was still as persistently attached as was his shadow.

"It's nothing." Responding to Hayes' expression of concern, he forced what little strength he could find into a breathless semi-gasp. "You were right all along. I'm just hungry, and…" He took a deep inward breath, which turned unintentionally into a soundless chuckle. "And it _has _been quite a long day."

A moment of doubt passed across Hayes' face, turning briefly to hints of a challenge. For an even longer time, Bashir considered giving in. _What could really happen_? he asked himself. What if he _were _to tell all that he knew to Nathan Hayes…?

But he was exhausted - beyond the point of being able to deal with whatever added pressure a confession would almost certainly bring. Instead, he watched the change in Hayes' expression as he forced another mouthful of rations to pass down his throat.


	32. x7

Bashir hesitated as the mist of the transporter beam dissolved steadily from his vision, and so did the jagged line of people who stood, waiting at uneven intervals around the _Defiant_'s transporter bay. He struggled to hold back an instinctive retreat, restricting his attention instead to the depth and pacing of every breath. Desperately, deliberately, his focus was limited to the closest pair of scrutinising brown eyes.

"Captain?"

A moment of silence passed between them, as awkward as the lengthy months since either man had been able to contact the other in any direct capacity.

"I wasn't expecting a welcoming party," Bashir tried to joke, glancing away as he scratched irritably at the back of his head. _But of course_, he corrected his earlier statement. He could not have expected anything different.

Corinna moved subtly from back- to foreground, and Doctor Nathan Hayes also shifted two steps closer. O'Brien also stopped at the sight of his captain, looking sheepish - and, Bashir was convinced, more than a little apologetic. A moment of tension passed between the engineer and Sisko, dissolving just as quickly, but the captain's hard gaze promised further retribution. Instead of taking the moment to speak, he crossed the floor to stand directly in front of Julian.

"Sir." A soft, sharp cough was just enough to provide a way to start his voice.

Sisko hesitated, noticing the other man's unspoken adverse reaction. He shifted back a little, without another step - but with a deliberate soft edge to his answer. "It's good to see you again."

His throat aching too badly for an effective response. Bashir merely offered the captain a nod and a small, tight smile. It vanished again as he struggled to hole back a twisting pain in his chest and stomach. His attention shifted to all the others, and settled eventually on the woman standing at Captain Sisko's side.

"Corinna." It was said with barely a sound. Tears stung the surface of his eyes, but with supreme effort, he blinked them away.

They embraced - a touch that felt oddly detached, a performance more than a natural, spontaneous response to their reunion. But then there was a memory - another man's words from long ago._ More like the distant memory of a touch_…

Julian was first to step back, forcing another smile. His cousin's arms had tightened around him as though she was afraid of letting him get away.

Corinna sniffed, staring up at the ceiling, and rubbed her own face with the ball of one hand. Julian paused, noting that her eyes still sparkled with a shallow pool of clear salt moisture. The skin of her lower lids was swollen and lined with a rim of reddish pink.

Julian's voice was hoarse, but quiet and polite as he gestured impotently to the door beyond the gathered observers. "I probably should…"

Glancing uneasily at Sisko, he rested one hand on the bag at his hip. His other hand squeezed Corinna's once before letting go.

"Of course." Sisko nodded and looked around as though only then recalling that he himself was a part of the scene. His gaze burned with the turmoil of still unaskable questions, but moved slightly beyond the younger man. "Doctor?"

Bashir's head also turned a little until he made contact with Hayes' grey-blue eyes. _That makes sense_, he supposed, feeling heavy again. _It would have to be him_.

"We have assigned you quarters on the _Defiant_," said Hayes. "But first I think we'd better make a stop at Sickbay."

"No." Even Bashir was surprised at the sudden fervour in his voice. Not unusually loud, but intense enough to startle the others. His hand clenched tighter around his travel bag, fingernails scratching against the rough polyester fabric.

"No." A little more subdued with his second attempt at a reply. But still the subtle plea remained. "Thank you. Quarters will be fine."

_Somewhere private. Alone_. Away from the inevitable attention he was bound to find from every other person who happened to pass his way.

The muscles tightened around Doctor Hayes' jaw and temples. But he nodded, conceding much more than he seemed to agree. "Come with me, then - and I'll check on you later."

_It's a compromise_, thought Julian, reminding himself that he would most likely have decided exactly the same, had he been viewing the situation from Nathan's place. And he could feel the pressure of watching faces, pressing in from all around him. Looking down, the only place where he could no longer see their stares, he sighed.

As he passed through the open door, he noticed Garak take a step in their direction. "Stay where you are, Mister Garak." The captain's admonishing tone came from slightly further away. Bashir glanced over his shoulder in time to see him glaring meaningfully at both remaining men "I still have a few things to say to the two of you."

* * *

Sisko remembered how he'd felt upon first meeting the eager young doctor - who had stepped on board the newly claimed station, fresh out of Medical School at the age of twenty seven. How many times had he wished that Bashir would only grow up, or at least find some way to control that overactive mouth of his? But now, the echoes of past wishes burned like acid in his memory. The man who'd come back to his ship on that day was not much older, unless in the weariness that showed behind his eyes.

_If only_… Sisko felt the weight of those words rest heavily upon his shoulders. If only, just one more time, he could catch a glimpse of that puppy-dog enthusiasm which had so exasperated him in bygone years.

But a second unsavoury matter demanded his attention now. O'Brien and Garak had remained side by side in front of the transporter pad - one round-eyed and unrepentant, the other barely able to meet Sisko's gaze. The Chief stared at some undefined point just beyond the foreground, as though the protocols of Starfleet was allowing him a measure of cold comfort.

"Now--" said the captain, pinning both men with an intensely turbulent glare. "It's time for one of you to explain exactly _what _you were thinking."

"Well, Sir--" It was O'Brien who spoke first. But it took a sharp ear to pick up the hesitation in his voice. "I couldn't be one to say for sure…"

Sisko positioned himself in front of the Chief, forcing the other man to look at him directly. "_Try_."

O'Brien's stammer worsened until it was easy to notice. "It's just that… I've been in Starfleet for a long time, Captain. A _long _time, and… Sure, I don't _like _being told to sit back and pretend that nothing's up. But I was just about willing to leave it at that. I told myself that we didn't know anything, that nothing I did would make any difference. But when Garak came and hinted to me that he had some kind of information, I couldn't have just…"

He shrugged, as though uncertain of how to continue, and now his eyes finally met Sisko's. All hint of doubt was gone from his expression. "Everything looks so much different, when you know that there's a chance."

* * *

"_It's all right," Bashir was still seated beneath the hard-backed table as he listened to Hayes' quiet promise. The older man smiled. "Captain Sisko has the _Defiant_ standing by. They're looking forward to seeing us again. Are you ready?"_

Sisko_… It had been so long since he'd really believed that he would ever see his old crewmates again. Even the promises of Kalandra and the others had not made the possibility seem entirely real. Bashir nodded, but stopped to gather what he could of his strength, chest rising laboriously with each deep inward breath through his nose_.

"_I can arrange a direct transport if you don't feel up to the journey," came the doctor's voice from the same nearby place._

_Julian set his jaw, determined not to accept defeat, and hauled himself upright and away from the hard vertical support. "No. I can stand."_

_He rested for a moment on arms and legs with barely strength to support his weight. One hand grasped the table's edge, hard enough for his fingers to hurt - and he clapped his other palm automatically against the hard, smooth surface. A series of deliberate breaths came close to dissolving the cobwebs in his mind. But he shrugged away Hayes' offer of assistance. "Just… Just give me a moment."_

_They were not immediately reunited with either of his closest friends - even when he and Doctor Hayes had made their way together through the cafeteria exit. The doors had been prised open manually by the strength of two top-heavy engineers, and still marked by the uneven speckled brown of extreme heat._

_The doctor himself was pale and tense, with patches of plum-black skin beneath his eyes. _Little wonder_, Bashir supposed. With everything that had come before, it was easy to picture what must have led him to this point. He had seen the same marks on his own face on occasion: the same hollowness in the cheeks and quiet exhaustion behind the eyes. Mounting fatigue would often rise to the surface only after the frenzy of tending to multiple wounded would finally start to ease._

_So, what was he to think? Had the danger passed them by already, before he'd been able to do the slightest good?_

_Glancing back over his shoulder, Bashir's eyes located Ezri Tigan. Her pale face found him also, as though she sensed that he was watching. She stopped, chewing nervously on a corner of her lower lip. And then, smiling timidly, she tucked the same strand of hair once more behind one ear. The bruise had vanished from Tigan's skin, but her brow had gathered into a mixture of uncertainty and concern. There was a question in those wide blue eyes._

_Her movements were shaky, Julian noted, but not without a share of hard determination. He answered with a smile of his own, designed as something between thanks and reassurance. But his smile quickly vanished as a statuesque Human moved closer to speak with the much smaller Trill. The dark, pinched face of Counsellor Hsu Mae - framed as always by hair so black it was approaching satin-blue - followed the direction of Tigan's sapphire eyes._

_As quick as though reacting to a sudden threat, Julian broke his gaze from theirs. Just far enough to see that Hayes had also been observing the seconds-long exchange._

* * *

_Who's that_? wondered Bashir, half rising with a quiet frown at the sound of the double-toned chime. Hayes had already been back at least once since leading the younger man to his small on-board quarters. But he had said nothing about making any extra visits. He lifted one hand to grasp the base of the bunk above, and grunted under his breath. A deep pain still persisted in the muscles beneath his upper abdomen. But there was only one way to find out who could be waiting beyond his quarters.

"Come in." It did not take much to elicit a reaction from the door, which opened on demand, keyed to respond to even the quietest of humanoid voices. His visitor stepped inside, toying with the braid she had tucked over one shoulder.

"How are you?" Corinna's nervous inquiry was quieter still. She stood in the doorway, steady hazel eyes locking with her cousin's. Julian cast her a sorely inadequate attempt at a smile. Clutching his ribs with the opposite hand, he watched Corinna settle beside him.

"I never expected to see you here," he commented, skirting deftly around her question. "I'd have thought you'd be back with your family by now."

"You're family too."

"I know. But…"

Corinna shook her head. "I couldn't go back to Earth."

"Why not?" The frown deepened slightly in the space between her cousin's brows.

"I suppose you heard what happened to Toran?" She pressed her hands together and looked down to watch them, allowing the shade of the overhead lights to spill down over her face.

"No," said Julian, puzzlement blending with uneasy concern. "What happened?"

Corinna looked up, mouth open mutely, but with the answer as clear as the shifting glint of tears across her eyes. But they spilled a little as she turned away and shook her head again. "Nothing. Nothing at all."

Julian was first to break the next long, awkward silence. "But--" he began. "There's still Meg and Tessa to think about, isn't there? You should have gone straight home to your family."

"I had to stay," insisted Corinna, and took a deep breath as though bracing herself to force another difficult response. "Remember…?"

She stopped, fingernails pressed deep into her palms. "Remember when you first arrived on Earth?"

Julian nodded.

"Well--" Corinna's hands unclenched slowly, so that even her slightest movements seemed agonisingly deliberate. Almost immediately, her fingers had curled once again into fists. "I guess I…" She sighed painfully, concentrating on retracing her steps until she stood again at the same spectral crossroads, and allowed herself a moment to consider which way she needed her words to go.

As she spoke, each one brought another split second of awkward uncertainty, many almost too brief to be perceived. And yet, the tension between them continued to rise. "We all knew," the slender young woman began to explain. "That there was going to be a war, I mean. And I don't want you to think I never cared. Or didn't… or didn't at least try to understand…"

"I would never think that," gasped Julian - and tensed, wincing at the pain of ill considered movement.

Corinna jerked around and watched him intently. "Are you sure you want to be hearing this?" she fretted. "I could…"

She pointed to the door.

"No - it's all right," Julian promised her. Better than dwelling on everything he knew would inevitably come.

Anxiety passed behind the eyes of his cousin. But she sighed. "I guess that people got scared sometimes, Especially that time when the power grids failed. But then, I… There was always some part of me that found it all a little…" She stopped, fidgeting, scowling as though to berate herself for even having such a thought.

"Just a little what?"

Corinna jumped at the sound of Julian's gentle prompting. "I suppose, a little… silly," she confessed. "So paranoid. But that was before the war. And after, no-one I knew was really involved. So perhaps I didn't understand every Friday, why you had to read all those Starfleet reports. It seemed like… like you were punishing yourself for no reason."

"Maybe I was."

"No." Corinna shook her head emphatically. "No. It was me. It's _my _fault. And I… I'm sorry. It's all so different now. Especially after Toran… After Toran went away. I came on the _Defiant _because I wanted to. Because maybe that would give some… _point _to all of this. But it was more than that. I had to."

For a full minute, both were silent, each watching the other until the moment when Corinna became the first of them to look away. Julian continued his wordless observation. _You're right_, he thought. _Everything's different now_. But somehow, from somewhere just beyond the borders of his consciousness, more words came.

"You might have been killed."

_I thought you _were _killed_, he remembered, chest clenching against his will. As Corinna's brown eyes turned his way again, all remaining words snared painfully within his throat. His cousin said nothing, but Julian did not fail to notice the struggle in her eyes.

"I can't put anyone else at risk, Corinna." He raked a shaking hand through his hair. Corinna reached towards him, but drew back slightly before she was close enough to touch his shoulder. Julian hunched over, forcing another inward breath.

"How would I explain to Liam and Meg and Tessa, if anything happened to you?" he choked. "I can't allow it. Not for my sake. As soon as we get back to DS9, I want you to leave."


	33. x8

_Tigan did not take long to come near enough to the still bewildered Human visitor for their conversation to be held in relative privacy. "Are you all right?" she asked in a tense, hushed semi-whisper._

_Julian nodded quietly. He found that he was glancing awkwardly to one side, not wanting to think of how much he must have scared the others around him. "I'm fine now," he promised. Silence passed between them, still and heavy, but somehow not as uncomfortable as he had come to expect it would be._

_He felt the soft, cool touch of the Trill woman's hands around his own. "I heard you might be going back to your ship," commented Tigan._

My ship? _Julian supposed it could still be true, on some level at least. He turned to look behind him, where Hayes was waiting patiently - having already stepped away to stand at a respectful distance. "Just a moment?"_

_A return to the _Defiant _was probably not a bad idea, he reminded himself - concealing the remainder of the unsteadiness, trembling, and the chill that had caused the hairs to rise across his forearms. A chance had come to reacquaint himself with familiar surroundings. Perhaps the last that he would ever get. But every time these thoughts came to his mind, they only augmented the reluctance in his steps. Certainly, a little time could hardly be too much to ask._

"_You're welcome to…" he stammered, and looked down at where their hands were clasped against each other. A glance at Hayes, and then to Counsellor Hsu Mae - and he forced his voice to drop to half volume. "Uh… If you want to… Stay in touch."_

_Tigan grinned broadly, nodding once. "I'd love to."_

"_So would I," responded Julian - still keeping his promise to that same quiet, slightly melancholy tone. He realised with only a little surprise that he had not glanced back up again. And smiled. "You'll make a good counsellor one day, Enxign."_

"_Ezri," she corrected him._

"_Ezri, then."_

_Cocking her head to one side, Ensign Tigan gave her new friend's hand a final enthusiastic shake. Her face seemed to glow with its own inner warmth. "I'm glad to have met you, Julian Bashir."_

* * *

Strands of ghost-thin orange hair lingered in a cloud above Hayes' reddened crown, as he ruffled it with an open palm and turned on entering the otherwise empty mess hall. Almost immediately, he raised his head to look directly at the captain, who had entered after him. Was this a standard gesture among doctors? Sisko found that he was wondering. Passed along from one to the next? Or was it just co-incidence that so many of those he'd encountered seemed to have picked up the same unconscious habit?

There was far more than simple fatigue showing in the other man's eyes, in the line of his back and shoulders. The loose skin beneath his lower eyelids was beginning to sag, already turning to darker hues as though he or somebody else had painted it to look that way. Hayes composed himself quickly, but the outward signs of weariness had been revealed - however briefly - and even now were clearly there to see.

_Has he gone off duty, even once, since we left the station_? An added thought occurred to Sisko as he looked more closely at the doctor's mildly bloodshot, grey-blue eyes. _Have any of us_?

"We'll be heading back to Deep Space Nine," he informed the doctor. "As soon as I can be certain that we're no longer needed here. But I do need to know, will that be soon enough?"

"Perhaps," came the answer. But Nathan Hayes seemed barely aware that he had begun to shake his head.

"What does that mean?"

"There's definitely something going on, beyond what we already know." Hayes told the captain. "But at the same time, there's not a lot more that I can do without the opportunity to run some further tests. And I'm reluctant to force him to submit to any intervention after everything he's already been through."

He sighed. "But of course, if this continues for too much longer, we might be left with no other choice."

Sisko absorbed this information, with more outward calm than he felt inside. But there was yet one more question which had to be asked. "Do you think this has anything to do with the Cardassians?" A flood of anger rose upwards from inside him, like a snake that was setting itself up to strike. And even as it settled, a powerful phantom taste of acid had fixed itself to the back of the captain's mouth.

"I don't think so." Hayes shook his head. "It's still quite difficult to say for sure. I've received some of Doctor Kalandra's notes from the _Destiny_, of course. But judging from the evidence given to us by Mrs Anderson and others, much of this started well before either of them even boarded the _Ragnarok_. He has me stumped, Captain - and that's not good news."

"Bottom line?" demanded Sisko.

The doctor frowned tumultuously, all his attention focused on a search for an appropriate response. "The situation is worse than he's wanting to admit," he finally explained. "Any doctor should be able to treat all the standard injuries that one might expect to find with a man returning from captivity, and were that all, the rest would simply be up to time. But there's more than just that simple problem here. Without some solid physical evidence on which to base a diagnosis, I can't get to the root of it. I'm sorry."

_Sorry_? It took all remaining power of the captain's will not to demand a better response. The doctor sighed heavily, and he held up a hand. "I know, I know. It's only a matter of time. Solving difficult problems is a part of my profession, after all. But I'm just not sure that I can solve this one, and that's… frustrating."

The _Defiant_'s internal comm. interrupted Sisko's chance to inject a response, sounding loudly in both men's ears. He stepped back, eyes narrowed thoughtfully. The voice had been Jadzia's.

"Sorry to interrupt your briefing, Captain." But Dax sounded only slightly apologetic as she turned to find Sisko and Doctor Hayes both striding quickly onto the bridge. A corner of her brow twitched into a briefly pensive frown. She looked first at Sisko and then at the doctor - searching for a perceptible clue as to the course and mood of the two men's conversation.

"No problem, Dax. What was it that you wanted?"

Perhaps it was only the same remaining anxiety twisting deep beneath the captain's skin - that had never left him, even once, throughout their journey. Only moments ago, it had been O'Brien and Garak standing before him, waiting to see what consequences he would bring to their future. But the idea of punishing the pair had grated against his conscience like rough-cut glass. Confining them both to quarters was the harshest pronouncement he could bring himself to give. He still needed his Chief of Operations to return to duty on the ship - and even this mildly punitive order had to be wrenched from the depths of his stomach. Almost as if Captain Sisko himself had dug all the way past the flesh of his own belly, and pulled it out with powerful, bloodied hands.

Sisko saw little to indicate how much Dax had gleaned from her fleeting but attentive glance in his direction. He did not have to prompt her to set aside her concerns for a more appropriate time. "No sign of Jem'Hadar," she told them. "The _Destiny _reports she has warp drive, weapons and sensors back on line. She's ready to stand on her own again, and Captain Raymer said to pass along his thanks. Oh, and the reason I called you up here, Benjamin… Odo's been asking to speak to you on the emergency subspace frequency. He says it's urgent."

* * *

Sisko sought a place where he could isolate himself from all the other officers, instinct telling him that this was not a conversation he would want the crew to hear. "Constable," he acknowledged the man whose face appeared on the nearest communications screen. "What can I do for you? Is everything all right?"

"I'm afraid not, Captain." Odo wasted no time in reaching the point of his communiqué. "There's been an… incident."

Trepidation and alarm were quick to rise in Sisko's conscious thoughts - churning and uneven like an egg that had been whipped too long. He realised as each new doubt came to the fore, that these feelings had been plaguing him for the better part of a week. He braced himself for the inevitability of unwelcome news, mind running over all possible scenarios he could bring to his imagination. _Jake_! was his first panicked thought. Had the Dominion taken advantage of his absence after all? Had something terrible happened to his son?

But Benjamin Sisko had been a Starfleet officer for over two decades, certainly long enough to have learned how to hold back even the worst of his fears. Premature conclusions could be distracting, he knew - and occasionally, they might even border on dangerous. The backdrop of Odo's security office appeared to be intact. No sign of great disaster marked the visible portion of the walls.

"What kind of incident?" Sisko prompted.

"Somebody has ambushed one of my deputies with a hypospray." The explanation began levelly enough - but there was still that rising undertone of perturbation beneath the voice of the station Security Chief. "Apparently less than an hour after he came on duty. They have removed a prisoner from one of the holding cells."

The captain's frown grew more pronounced across his face. "Did you see them?"

"I was in a puddle on the floor of my quarters at the time," insisted Odo. "The culprit must have known my regeneration cycle, or such a breach could never have happened. In any case, it appears that he must have been after Jocelyn Davies."

"Why would you say that?" Sisko demanded.

Folding his arms across his chest, Odo glanced irritably to one side. His lips pressed together into a tight, one-dimensional line. The captain was not surprised to see the change - Odo's skills as a Security officer were an essential part of his very core. For anyone to take such clear advantage of his one recognisable weakness…

"It's quite obvious, Captain." The Constable sniffed, drawing himself up with a hefty measure of wounded pride "Especially given the fact that our prisoner is gone."

* * *

Many long months had passed, since Bashir had last stepped onto the carpeted floors of Deep Space Nine. This place had been his career, his life, and his reason for living. But whatever years he had spent on the station now carried the sensation of distant memories - parts of a story that barely seemed like it could have belonged to him. Five years, he counted. Had that really been all?

There were still many things that he would never forget. The grey-brown hue of the corridors. The single lengthy stripe running down the centre of every carpet. And of course, that a tall man always had to duck just slightly in order to clear both heavy, circular openings onto the docking ring. And then, he remembered, the corridor itself was dim and curving, grids of light spilling downward from overhead access hatches, and with a subtle odour of slow-moving air fringed with another that was not unlike dry musk.

Even this atmosphere seemed to shift frenetically around him, creating a crescendo to the charged murmur pervading their surroundings. It stopped almost an instant after Julian had stepped through the airlock. He retreated half a metre to make way for what remained of the slow procession of the _Defiant_'s crew - and to stand in a position from where his eyes could scan the heavily silent, watching crowd.

The captain and Jadzia were last to disembark, stepping over the raised threshold less than a second before the thickly reinforced door rolled noisily shut behind them. Every grunt of its powerful hydraulic hinges could be easily heard - followed by the final crunching clang to signal that their way out was now well and truly blocked. But even then, the attention of their spectators was still firmly directed at the man before them - a man whose civilian attire now felt as strange as in the very first hour, since his Starfleet life had so abruptly come to an end.

Closest to the entry point, Jake Sisko coughed silently and lowered his head as though embarrassed to have been first to meet Bashir's gaze. His best friend Nog had changed since their last encounter - now dressed in the padded uniform of a Starfleet Ensign with an undershirt of mustard-yellow. _Engineering_? Bashir wondered, perversely intrigued that the Ferengi youth would be following indirectly in the footsteps of his father.

Nog grimaced at the moment of contact, but did not release the new arrivals from his stare. He continued to peer from beneath his overhanging, hairless brows at the groups of disembarking officers. Recovering quickly, he stepped forward and stood almost to attention - with his hands positioned emphatically against the base of his tailbone. "It's good to have you back, Sir," he announced.

"Thank you," Bashir discovered that he was saying. Others were echoing Nog's sentiment, but their eyes all clearly showed the unspoken legacy of many days' rumour and open speculation. Some reached hesitantly forward as though uncertain of whether to grasp the hand of their former comrade. Bashir saw Jake glance once at his father, before moving back into the shadows. Kassidy Yates - whose passing acquaintance had been a valuable one, however little Julian had known her - now brought her hands up to rest upon the shoulders of the captain's son.

Still further away, he saw his former girlfriend Leeta, watching even more awkwardly and with her mouth open as though trapped partway between speech and silence. _But she's married to Rom now, isn't she_? A reminder of how much had changed in the time that Bashir had been gone - and of how little he now belonged.

"Are you all right?" whispered Cornna uncertainly. Both hands clasped her cousin around the elbow. Julian nodded, although there was little he could do to conceal his moment of distraction.

An anxious attempt to swallow was far too dry to ease the ache of straining muscles in his throat. _How much do they know_? he fretted in secret, and looked to one side, where yet another person was approaching from the distance. The quiet, polite tone of his voice had turned just slightly breathless. "Major?"

Kira Nerys stepped past all the others and into the foreground, accompanied one step behind by the smooth-faced Chief of Station Security. "Julian." Now it was her turn to reach up to clasp him by the hand. Her smile of welcome had already started to waver, but then she paused long enough to exchange a silent glance with the Constable.

"Your old quarters are still available," she told Julian, matching his progress away from the crowd with her usual smooth and well-placed stride. "We saw no reason not to reassign them to you. Perhaps you'd like some time to freshen up."

Bashir managed to shape his mouth into a close approximation of a smile. "Thank you, Major. Perhaps later."

He glanced over one shoulder at Corinna, Dax, and Sisko - now painfully aware that same faltering uncertainty had clouded his reply. Doubt was as obvious to him as a knife in his side, but he had to hope that none of the signs had reached the others. Even his steps were far from secure, placed on unsteady feet that threatened to betray him with every lapse in concentration.

* * *

"I'll be along in a moment," Sisko promised Hayes, and exchanged a glance with the others around them. His focus was quickly redirected towards his taciturn Security Chief. Nodding in response to the moment of contact, Odo stepped deliberately closer to the station commander. He noticed that Bashir had turned to watch them over his shoulder, but the small group disappeared just as quickly, as the captain and Odo strode away around the smoothly curving passage.

"How is he?" asked Odo, inclining his head in the direction from which they had recently come. He was alone with his captain - many metres away along the poorly lit corridor. Neither man slowed at Odo's gruff attempt to initiate a dialogue.

"I don't know." There was a moment of gravity in Sisko's reply, but no hesitation. He changed the subject with barely a pause. "Now, talk to me. What is it that you haven't so far told me over subspace?"

"There isn't really a lot more that I can tell." But Sisko caught the subtle hint of self-reproach in the Chief of Security's rough half growl. "_Yet_. I've ordered a station-wide lockdown on all departing shuttles. But I don't imagine that it's going to be a very effective means of apprehending whoever was involved."

Sisko nodded thoughtfully. "A long range beacon could have extended the distance of a transport, anywhere up to three light years," he murmured - half to himself - then returned his attention fully to the conversation with the Constable. "Did you find any evidence of transporter use?"

"No," responded Odo. "But we don't even know for certain that Davies was beamed directly from the holding cell. She could just as easily have been smuggled off the station via the cargo bays, the loading docks - or any one of a dozen other routes. I will continue to investigate."

He handed his captain a thin, hard padd. But his promise of an investigation had not sounded at all hopeful. "My report."

The captain was still frowning, quietly pensive, as a nod of acknowledgement was exchanged in lieu of thanks.

"Whoever was responsible, he was certainly thorough," Odo went on. "All the monitors in Security were disabled. Engineering crews took almost fifteen minutes to bring them back on line. There were no clues left behind in the office, or in the holding cells. No fingerprints, or visual records, or even DNA. Deputy Tallis is currently recovering in his quarters. He claims to remember almost nothing of the incident."

Sisko stopped a moment to absorb this information. "Some kind of memory block?" he postulated, rubbing the groove beneath his lower lip.

"That's not impossible," the Constable replied, continued frustration showing conspicuously beneath the surface of his voice. "But with respect, my primary concern in this matter must be our missing prisoner."

"Of course, Constable." When Sisko glanced at his Chief of Security, the darker mood had still not lifted from his eyes. "Keep me informed."

Odo nodded - his voice now even sterner than it had been in many days. "I intend to, Captain."


	34. x9

The rooms that had once served as Bashir's quarters had changed very little from the time when he had still been in Starfleet. But they felt so much emptier. Sterile. As though they had been carved away at the centre - and just as surely stripped of all that had ever been personal to him.

_But not quite all, perhaps_. Still gazing around, he grunted softly as he eased himself into the chair, and rested one hand against the exterior of his travel bag. Much of the weight was its own, with the little that he had been able to carry with him. A change of civvies, another for the night, and a padd for some of the data he'd originally intended to seek. But everything he held there was his own, and at least there was comfort in knowing that Kukalaka was still tucked somewhere beneath the rough, utilitarian fabric.

"So, is it good to be back?"

_These quarters don't even feel like mine any more_. He was more like a visitor to an unfamiliar room, glancing for the very first time at surrounding colours he had once seen every day. With one hand gripping the back of the seat, and his elbow on the table, he turned to find the major still watched him from a few steps away. Her voice was soft, fringed with a trace of a gentle smile - and Julian wondered that she had managed not to sound as uncertain as several others had done. On the _Destiny_, on Captain Sisko's ship. Only moments earlier, at the airlock.

"It's been a while," he confessed.

_He had not spoken to so many of his former colleagues since he'd stood on the lower of two platforms, waiting for enough of the crowd to pass him by. It had been a fine day on Bajor, enough for the fabric of his clothes to absorb some natural heat. The crowd was not taking a long time to thin, and then his time would come to take his own place on the narrow ramp leading up to the entry hatch._

_A peculiar thing, that Kira's had been the last face he had seen from his old life - before boarding the shuttle and continuing what there was of the new. "Stay in touch," she had told him, shaking his hand. He remembered that he had nodded, returned her smile, but wanted nothing more than to leave her behind._

A moment of silence passed between them, until Nerys stepped back and lifted both hands to indicate the entire length and breadth of Bashir's quarters. "I should probably leave you to get settled."

"Thank you."

She glanced once over her shoulder a moment before she reached the exit, hesitant to step through. "If there's anything you need…"

"You'll be first to know." Julian smiled. As the door slid open, and closed again, there was only one occupant remaining in the rooms.

The past haunted every corner, incorporeal images rising in his memory, and fading back to the same long shadows before he could capture anything beyond a weak afterimage. _But you were the one who wanted to be alone_. As his gaze panned around the now empty quarters, he squirmed along with the twisting of his belly. Almost automatically, he reached into the travel bag, and wrapped one hand beneath Kukalaka's furry arms.

The bear was looking a little worn, some of his seams coming apart where the thread had begun to unravel. Again. "Don't worry." Positioning Kukalaka on the table, Julian paused as he looked down at his dark brown face. This operation would require some additional equipment. Just some thread and a thin metal needle. He patted the bear's soft fur, swearing as he always had that he would fall to pieces before he would allow it to happen to his first ever patient. But then he snickered. "The doctor will be with you shortly."

He stumbled on the first step, bracing himself with both hands against the back of the chair. With the distant blackness beyond the view port even sharper against the textured orange slope below, he noticed that his pulse had intensified - now so fast and strong that he could sense it throbbing beneath his skin. Breathing deeply and deliberately, he closed his eyes and gripped the support so tightly that his hands began to ache. When, he wondered, had the familiar blackness between each blinking star left him feeling so vulnerable and exposed?

"Back soon," he promised the recumbent teddy bear. But the distant window watched him steadily, already demanding the attention of his anxious gaze.

Lifting his hands from the furniture, Julian recoiled, and stared for a moment at the reverse imprint it had left against his palms. It had always been that way, always open as though something was watching from outside. He had imagined the same unfeeling observers, many days after his last return from the Gamma Quadrant. But even this, he had managed somehow to forget. Until now. Feeling his heart jump in his chest, he retreated from the staring, open eye.

"Sisko," he exclaimed unexpectedly - and intently enough to startle even himself. He was breathing far too rapidly, already lightheaded, heart thundering as he backed against the wall. The blood prickled beneath the surface of his skin, where he furiously rubbed his face with the back of one hand. One man drowning, dwarfed by the vastness of the universe. But the idea remained, sharp and overwhelming. He had to speak to the captain.

* * *

Julian paused for a deep, steadying breath, cleared his throat, and knitted the fingers of both hands together before he glanced in turn at Captain Sisko and Doctor Hayes. They were alone in the wardroom, seated on the array of furniture at the far end. Away from the long, glaring light of the conference table. _But I was scared_. He felt the fear even now as though it were a shadow at his back. _The whole time. So scared_. He had to focus, to dig past the surface layer of his memory and find those moments that had drifted away, sinking downward through the murkier regions of his mind.

"Captain," he began, and coughed again to re-establish some semblance of a voice.

Hayes sat at a distance, but the doctor's gaze was like a spear, constantly prodding against the younger man's back. It had been one of the conditions imposed on their meeting. He would have to be there, to be sure that Julian did not become too stressed.

_And what exactly does that mean_? Resisting a second glance to Hayes' staring blue-grey eyes. Bashir was no longer sure that he could have come up with a definite answer.

"It's all right, Julian." Leaning forward slightly, hands locked together atop his knees, Sisko held Bashir's attention with his own steady, even gaze.

And Bashir nodded. "I know that, Sir."

Everything he had to say had seemed so clear a moment ago - on leaving the privacy of his quarters behind him. They had seemed even clearer in the minutes before - when silence and solitude had brought all the nagging worries back into his mind. But now, in the larger single room, all words swirled shapelessly inside him. Perhaps this had all been a bad idea. Just as he'd suspected all along. He looked at Sisko with wide, pleading eyes.

"I've read the report from Commander T'Parn." The captain seemed to sense Bashir's unease - fuelled as it was by a burning need for clarity.

Sisko remained entirely tacit as he stroked a corner of his thin, dark moustache. The conflict in his eyes, the sharpened attention, was clear to see - even had nobody been looking directly his way. "There was more," confirmed Bashir, longing to break the heavy silence. "I'm surprised that Starfleet hasn't already been pressing us for information."

"They have," Sisko responded, calm as a lake on a windless day.

"But just to tell it all to you, and if I don't talk to Starfleet Intelligence directly… Are you certain that's likely to be enough?"

Sisko leaned back, again, continuing to stroke the stubble around his chin. "It ought to be," he concluded finally. He had been the one to propose this compromise, the suggestion that to meet with someone familiar might prove easier than a debriefing session with some long distant stranger.

"Then you probably should know." Bashir also punctuated his reply with an unintentional glance at the doctor at his left. But this was too important. He couldn't start to hold back now. "When he… Deyos, that is. When he first took us off the _Ragnarok_, and before we reached the Velos system… He was particularly keen to find out about you."

"Deyos?"

Bashir blinked, now suddenly, intently focused on the captain's eyes. Of course - there was a very good chance that he had been first to mention the Vorta by name. He had seen that smug, pale face so many times already, scarcely even able to close his eyes without that same vision filling his view. But it was clearer still at the depths of his dreams. "Yes… yes, Sir," he responded with some brief surprise.

"Wasn't that the name of the Vorta you told us about?" Sisko narrowed his eyes. "The one at that prison camp…?"

"Three Seven One." Few other numbers had ever been trapped so inextricably in his memory. He raised a hand to stop Hayes from intervening, but concealed it just as quickly. The tremor had not been so clearly visible - but he certainly felt it. Just as he felt the ground seemed to shift and tilt beneath his feet. "No," he gasped. "We have to do this now."

"Are you sure?" asked Sisko.

Swallowing hard. Bashir nodded and forced himself to look into the captain's eyes. "We may not get another chance."

For a moment, a troubled query passed across Sisko's hairless brow. A tightening of his skin, which might otherwise have been entirely missed. But whatever his doubts, no more were spoken aloud.

"What if you were to write everything down?" he asked instead. "As you remember it. Would that be easier?"

"Possibly, Sir. But…"

"But…?" Sisko encouraged him.

"I don't know that it would make a lot of difference in this war." Julian could hear his own voice rising. "The thing is, Captain - I don't know how much I can tell you. I can be as honest as any other man, but that wouldn't matter. There's just too much I still don't know. But every now and then, I remember something. And I think, _perhaps _it's real, but then it might not be. And even then I can't be certain. What use would that be to…?"

Everyone had been asking so many questions - then as much as now. "I wish I could say I'd forgotten what they wanted to know," continued Bashir, shaking his head in quiet despair. "I know that we decided not to put a lot of what we learnt on the station's computer, especially with something as dangerous as the Harvesters. It was just as we promised. But--" He chuckled bitterly, tapping a finger against the side of his own skull. "It's one of the 'advantages' of genetic enhancement. Something you might not know, perhaps. I remember _everything_. And if anyone has managed to get even half of this information from me, that's frightening. For the _Dominion_…"

"Julian," his captain cut in. He had kept his voice smooth and calm. "Slow down. You don't have to rush. There's plenty of time."

_No. There isn't_.

"All right…" Sisko proposed, after a long and thoughtful pause. "What if you could share some of this data with Starfleet as well? I'll have Chief O'Brien set down some of the information he knows as well. It would help us to discover exactly what we're fighting against if anything comes of all of this."

"We might be better prepared… As long as we kept it top secret." Bashir hesitated. It went against all that he was, all that he had sworn to protect. But then he nodded. "I can start right away."

"No," insisted Captain Sisko, as he glanced once at his latest CMO. "Not all at once. And don't try and tell me that everything's fine. You're not - and I can see it from here."

* * *

"I heard--" He swallowed hard, speaking in a voice that was closer to a hoarsely whispered breath. "I heard that you were under orders not to come after me."

As quickly as he could, he interrupted Doctor Hayes' oncoming response. "Miles told me," he explained. "Is… Is it true?"

Hayes paused, but nodded reluctantly. "Yes," he admitted. Not without a trace of resignation in his voice.

"I just wanted to say, it's… It's all right." Bashir took a deep breath. But he had to tell them, even if it really was too late. He could not let this man - or any others - feel such shame on his account. "I understand."

"Julian."

He stopped and turned back at the sound of his name. The corridor beyond the wardroom was even darker than many other parts of the station, a cast of near-black casting deep shadows as Hayes came closer. He knew the question before the older man had a chance to ask.

"No." Bitterness stung his eyes like acid. "Not this time, Nathan. No more tests. I've lost count of the number of times I've been scanned and prodded in the past few days, and honestly I can't see what difference it would make."

Hayes ran a hand despairingly over his face. "I can't accept that," he insisted. "You've been in my position, Julian. I don't think I have to tell you how it is, but my hands are tied without some way to find out what's going on."

"Then there's nothing you can do." Julian was almost certain that Hayes had detected tiredness in his voice. He could hear it himself, clear as if it had been amplified inside his head.

Perhaps there may have been more for him to say. Certainly, the thoughts were there - bubbling upwards, to be trapped behind the still unyielding silence. Bashir shook his head. The weight across his shoulders was growing painful. Seeing the older man's mouth open, he interrupted before the anticipated protest.

"I have to go…"

"You know, I could have you confined," Hayes called after him.

As Julian turned to look over his shoulder, the ferocious internal storm was cast from his eyes - as a mounting charge on a hot day would cast lightening through the raging upper atmosphere of any planet. Their gazes locked. Nathan's eyes were bereft of energy, but he said nothing more as the fire of Bashir's reaction drained away to nothing more than dead, brittle embers. _Not at this price_.

"No," he whispered. "I'm happy to help the captain. That's enough."


	35. 10

The Replimat was hardly the most likely place for Bashir to be at this early point of mid-afternoon. Even less surprising was to find such a sparse and quiet crowd. Tables were still spread evenly around the semi-open space, some occupied by scattered groups of no more than two or three. The level of ambient noise remained at a steady, not unpleasant murmur, as though kept down by some unspoken consensus on the part of the diners.

Head aching, as it had for much of the day, Bashir scowled down at the padd he had brought with him, at the parallel lines of text that covered only half of its screen. Irritably tapping the stylus against a corner of the table, he found that he had lost all further notions of precisely what he had wanted to say.

His thoughts turned as though tracing their own particular path, to the emptiness of the quarters he had left behind. And to where Kukalaka remained, abandoned - and unmended. _Not much of a healer, are you_? thought Bashir with a bitter flood of self-reproach. Another idea came repeatedly to his mind: of going back to his rooms - to the same lonely, half-lit silence. Just as Captain Sisko had wanted him to.

_I'm not in Starfleet any more. No orders_. The captain's advice had been exactly as his own would have been in the same situation. But there was an additional problem, for which Sisko had failed to account. Julian Bashir would find no rest. Not here, and certainly not in his quarters. Not while everything he remembered was still trapped deep inside his head. Undefined, unspoken - and unable to find escape.

So he had gone instead to the Replimat, to the one place where these thoughts would not resound like a sonic boom inside his own mind.

He looked up, suddenly realising that he was no longer alone at the table. Julian blinked, confirming after only a momentary delay that the man before him was really who he suspected him to be. "Chief?" Garak might have been able to slip into the opposite chair without making himself immediately noticed, but O'Brien's unforeseen presence was still more of a surprise. Bashir found that he had tilted the padd automatically towards himself, far enough to hide its contents from view. He held his breath, half afraid that the Chief would attempt to keep him from his task.

"I was putting something together for Captain Sisko," he explained, and set his ongoing endeavour face down upon the table. Both of his hands pressed hard against the padd's reverse side.

But the throbbing in his head was doing more to halt his progress than anything O'Brien or the others might have said. The Chief's expression had changed from the quietly congenial mask he had worn since joining Bashir at the Replimat. But it was difficult not to take note that he had not yet procured himself any food or drink.

"I didn't mean to interrupt." O'Brien noted lightly. "But you were looking as if you could use a break."

_Don't you start, now_… Bashir's right hand reached up and rubbed the back of his tense and aching neck. But the smile remained on the face of his companion, who lifted something in one hand, just high enough for light to bounce off the slim, golden surface. "Up for a game?"

"A…" Julian stopped, all protests and accusations dying in his mouth. "A game?"

One corner of O'Brien's mouth twitched upward into a knowing grin as he nodded to his left - across the Promenade to where a cluster of lights was flashing rapidly above the entrance to Quark's Bar. "So. How about it?"

* * *

Bashir held the dart in one hand, twisting it slowly and watching as a blinking shard of light flashed across its tip. He frowned, quietly troubled, unsure of how his own hand could connect the needle-sharp projectile to its target. His legs had barely strength to take his weight. "What do I need to throw again?" He did not know what bothered him more, the distraction as his thoughts took on a thousand conflicting currents, or the fact that ache it left behind was no longer unexpected. _Then, was it a twelve_? _Or double_?

"Could be… fifteen or so." But O'Brien did not sound any surer of his answer. Perhaps they should both have been paying more attention to the game. Slowly, Bashir lowered his right hand back to his side.

"We could go for a pint, if you'd rather."

O'Brien's voice was at his ear, but he struggled to focus long enough to notice, glancing again from the dart's point to the black, red, and gold-leafed edge of the board. But what response could any man give, who could barely even trust his own voice?

_One drink_, he commanded himself, and glanced over his shoulder towards the bar. _You can stay for just one drink_. If nothing else, he owed it to his friend.

* * *

"Excuse me." A gaudily clad Bolian manoeuvred herself between the two men and continued on her way from the dabo table. Bashir jumped as she touched his arm. Glancing back to watch the scene, O'Brien found that queasy anxiety was moving slickly through his blood.

"You all right?" He could not stop the question from passing between them.

Julian barely seemed to have heard. He had said very little to O'Brien since arriving on the station, and followed him through the crowd without looking at the customers, the Ferengi waiters, or even the smooth, elongated form of the nearest dabo girls. As though no more than the form of a man, travelling through the unreality of a holographic scene of which the two of them were barely a part.

"Had enough?" commented Quark, and wiped a silver cloth around the interior of a tall octagonal glass. "Already? That was quick."

He bobbed his oversized head, blithely ignoring the ferocious glare that Chief O'Brien had shot in his direction. "Tough crowd," he muttered, and set the drinking vessel down upon the top of his bar.

"Alright then - what can I get you?"

"What do you reckon - synthale?" The Chief glanced sidelong at Bashir, who nodded distractedly.

"Sure."

His anxiety lingered, even after hearing his friend's soft, whispered reply. He glanced briefly at where Bashir had locked his hands together over the bar top, and was looking down, even now - at some place just short of anything worth seeing. Even with the background reverie, this moment was as heavy as though silent, and even more solid than the surrounding furniture. Even Miles jumped at the arrival of two clear, medium-brown drinks.

_He had mentioned nothing of consequence in his most recent contact with his wife. Keiko Ishikawa had realised long ago that the man she was marrying would have to put himself in danger on multiple occasions, and the coming of the Dominion War would do nothing to change that fact. If anything, the potential risk to her husband was even greater than anything that either had encountered since their wedding day on board the _Enterprise_. But Keiko O'Brien had determined that she would face whatever challenges should befall their family, with the same resolve as they had faced so many others._

_Miles knew as much about the subtleties of Keiko's expressions as she claimed to know of his. There was that slight tension around her brow - and there again, at the very corner of her mouth. It was for the safety of their children, not her own, that she had agreed to separate from her husband of nearly seven years. But there was no call for Keiko O'Brien to know how he had endangered himself - no need for her or their family to know more than the barest details. And little Molly, her father had discovered, was growing to be as brave-faced as her mother._

_He had been peculiarly proud to see the confidence in his child's dark eyes. As she grew, it would hold her in good stead. But the idea of either of his children going through some of the things he had seen. It scared him, more than any other fear that he could name._

The shouts of the crowd behind them swelled in volume, voices jostling over each other until they had reached an infinite number of layers in a barely differentiated ocean of noise. Quark opened his mouth as though to make some additional comment, but turned away with a sigh and a wordless shake of his oversized head.

"Cheers," ventured Miles, holding up his drink, although the touch of awkwardness still coloured his voice.

"Oh," Julian muttered in response. Looking up again, he allowed his own glass to come into contact with O'Brien's. "Cheers."

Another sudden noise came from the opposite end of the bar, causing him to flinch and jerk around to stare at the customers. Julian's hands had tightened around his empty glass. His knuckles stood out - sharp and pale. With his back to O'Brien, but the shock was still plainly visible across his shoulders. But he threw back his synthale, and flashed O'Brien a hastily constructed, far too heavy smile.

It faded just as quickly. "Miles… What if I…?"

He shook his head, with his gaze fixed worriedly at some insignificant point, directly ahead of him. "Sorry - no, forget it. It doesn't matter."

"What?" asked the Chief, prompting more gently than he was usually inclined to do. "What were you going to say?"

_Bad move, O'Brien_, the Chief thought harshly. He had thought to distract his friend from whatever burdens still weighed him down. But any place in the universe would have been a better distraction than this overcrowded bar. A riotous cry sounded from behind them. "_Dabo_!" And immediately afterward, a sound of glasses dropping from their tray and scattering over the hard black floor.

Staggering back as though scalded, so suddenly that even his own bar stool tripped him up, Julian righted himself to stand at the centre of a crowd of staring faces. His eyes found Miles' first, then Quark's, and finally the open-mouthed faces of the dabo players. "Do you _have _to be so loud?" he demanded before spinning on his heel and hurrying for the exit.

* * *

"Captain." Odo was waiting as the doors opened onto the central hub of Deep Space Nine, as if he had known for a long time before that Sisko would be the one who stepped from the turbolift into Ops. He dogged Sisko's heels from the precise instant when the captain cleared the line that marked the Operations Centre's true entrance. "May I have a moment of your time?"

_A moment shouldn't be too much to ask_. Sisko nodded, and turned to climb the stairs towards his office. All that Bashir had told him remained disturbingly fresh in his memory - but doubtless his anxieties would not be forgotten with the passage of so little time. He had intended to contact Starfleet at the first opportunity. Two Bajoran crewmen followed the pair with fleeting sidelong glances. But neither man said anything further until the reinforced, transparent doors had slid tightly closed behind them.

"You have something for me?"

The face of his Security Chief carried no promise of better news. "I discovered some evidence of an unknown chemical compound that had been injected into the atmosphere of the holding cell," he confirmed. "Similar in composition to anaesthizine, but many times more powerful. I sent a sample to Dax for analysis. It would only have taken the smallest amount to have had the same effect."

"Somebody tapped into our life support system?"

_A disturbing thought_, Sisko mused, and the loaded silence at either side of Odo's answer resounded as clearly as any words. "I believe so," the Constable responded finally. "There were only trace amounts remaining, and being unknown, the Security systems were unable to detect it before we ran an active scan. If this tells us anything, Captain, I find it highly doubtful that Davies would have willingly left the station."

A wave of electric anxiety crept all the way down Sisko's back, making the implications all the more difficult to banish from his thoughts. For a prisoner to have escaped from Security was troublesome enough, especially as the details were still a mystery to him. But an abduction… It bothered him all the more, that he could not say exactly what was so much more disconcerting about the idea.

"How much should we tell… other people?" Odo asked, interrupting the captain's moment of unsettled contemplation.

It took only the slightest movement of Sisko's head for him to turn directly towards the changeling Constable. The decision was wrenched from him, but it had to be made. "Nothing. For now. I think we had better hold off on sharing too much information, at least until we have enough to do some good." He hoped that it was not some lingering after-effect of his encounters with the Bajoran Prophets, telling him now that whatever choice he made, he would regret.

The Constable's meticulously constructed impression of a humanoid face showed little sign that he would react to the other man's choice. But his attention remained for a longer time than usual on that of his commanding officer. Sisko shifted his own focus to a distant constellation, somewhere beyond the single ovular view port, unwilling to show the conflict now closed away behind his dark brown eyes.

It was the Runners, he realised, which were only now coming into view with his station's unceasing and ponderous rotation. Strange, that his gaze always seemed to be drawn to this one particular point. And stranger still, that sometimes even the stars could not set aside their burning need to run.

* * *

At one time - so long ago that his recollections had drifted back into shadows of the distant past - he might simply have crossed the floor to close himself away inside his office, dimmed the lights, and narrowed his focus to the soft hued, artificial glow of the computer. But it wasn't his office any more. The station's Infirmary was no longer at the centre of his world, and no longer somewhere he could think of going without aversion. Feeling a blunt ache in his throat - different to that of swollen glands and yet so very much alike - Bashir doubled his pace and marched straight towards the nearest turbolift.

Looking down to conceal his face, he rubbed the moisture from his eyes. _No. Oh, God - not now_.

At the sound of doors closing, he was alone in the grey-walled space - but was stopped by a sudden wave of cold dread. He would have to speak to tell it where to go. He would have to open his mouth, and give the directions aloud. But how? The sobs pressing for release from the prison of his mouth would swarm to the surface like a flood of hot plasma.

Clenching both hands into two tight fists, he brought them up all the way to his face. He curled his fingers as though from a sudden cramp, gripped handfuls of his own dark hair. It was longer than he remembered it being. He fell against the wall - overbalanced, and slid to a crouch on legs that would no longer allowed him to stand. His mouth opened painfully to cry out to the tiny space. Because… What else could he do? It made barely a difference that his cries would never reach beyond the walls. In his mind, they were loud enough to fill the station, and every sector of the airless space beyond.


	36. 11

"Julian."

He cringed, sharply enough to jar himself against the interior wall, away from the sound of that familiar, melodious semi-whisper. Of all the people he could have encountered in this starkly grey and claustrophobic space… _Oh, God. Not now_.

He was shuddering, every intake of air a shallow, shattered gasp - almost too ragged to be classed as a breath. But, no. Not here. Not Dax. She mustn't see him so broken. He glanced up at his companion's china-white face, but just as quickly covered his eyes again, to hide the pain upon it behind two open hands.

But the speaker did not leave. Instead, she stepped inside and waited for the doors to close, before crossing her legs and dropping smoothly to a seated position at his side. Feeling sick, Julian drew both legs up against his chest to block the advance of this tall, supple Trill.

"Habitat Ring." Dax spoke softly, but the computer's response was immediate, automatic, and abhorrently loud. The quiet, high chime was followed an instant later by the steady whirr of the lift commencing its course. Pulsing light filled Bashir's vision - mounting and fading throughout the enclosed compartment. Before long, the rhythmic glow on every side expanded on every side to fill his awareness, the motion causing both occupants to rock and sway.

Dax's voice sounded again - this time even quieter than the last. "Halt turbolift."

Never far below the surface, alarm unfurled anew at the centre of Bashir's thin chest, like a thorny seedling the had stirred itself out of its winter dormancy.

"What are you doing?"

Instead of an answer, he found only the unwavering polar blue of Dax's eyes. Shame gripped his throat, at the sight of his own reflected image upon their surface. And had there not also been the ghost of a challenge behind the serenity of that flawlessly sculpted face?

"I'm… I'm sorry. Dax. I didn't mean…"

"Don't be," came her sotto voce response, soothing and painful all at once. Bashir was grateful not to have heard any reproach behind her words, but still he shied away from her touch of her hand on his arm. Its gentle, even stroke took only a moment to shift across to his upper back.

_No. Don't_. With a sudden, unexpected cry, he lifted his arms in a brief but desperate struggle to push her away. Or was it himself he was trying so hard to expel from the scene? "No," he begged, although his words barely emerged with as little breath as he had to give them power. "Please - please, not here."

She wouldn't let him get away - spreading her hand instead with increasing pressure across his opposite shoulder, using her own strength to bring him closer. "Shh…" she whispered in his ear.

"Oh, _God_."

Folding more tightly against himself than he'd ever imagined he was able to be, Julian collapsed sideways against her shoulder and pressed both fists to the sides of his skull. He was cold and weak, trembling beyond even the strength of Dax's arms to ease. It would not have mattered if he had attempted to flee, or even if there had been anywhere to go. Even his second escape from the Vorta Deyos made very little difference in the end. He was breaking apart, the intricate threads that had given him his spark of life now unravelling like a fractured spider web.

Grasping the back of his head, Jadzia smoothed his hair with an open hand. "Shh," she said again, "Don't hold back. I promise never to tell a soul."

Finally she looked up, and spoke in a voice that was barely above the threshold of even Bashir's keen hearing. "Computer, resume."

* * *

Lieutenant Commander Dax had not expected to find the turbolift already occupied. The doors had slid aside with their usual distinctive reverberations, but had revealed no-one in the initial moments of opening. Even now, she still carried a memory of her own reaction, the sharply visceral shock running through every one of her nerves, so immediate that her conscious mind had not at first taken account of what her eyes had discovered. The figure of a man crouched in a corner - as far from sight as the limited space would allow him to be.

"Come on," she said to Bashir as the doors opened again, this time onto a dim and deserted passage. She guided him to his feet, where he stood in a corner and hunched over like a man of several times his age. Taking his hand, Dax sensed that he had not stopped shivering as though from a deep chill. He followed slowly - stumbling with every metre that they had covered along the smooth carpet of the hall.

There was little space to cover before they reached the door to Bashir's own quarters, arriving simultaneously to stand by the entrance. Jadzia turned back with a troubled frown, and noticed that Bashir had raised a hand to grip the nearest wall. Now, even more than she had on first hearing of the _Ragnarok_'s capture, she worried. "Perhaps I _should _call Doctor Hayes," she suggested, watching tentatively to see how he would react. "There might be something he can do…"

She waited for an uneasy moment - just long enough to see Julian shake his head. His next breaths were sharp and irregular as he averted his eyes from Jadzia's.

* * *

The rooms were as quiet as when Bashir had left them behind, and every bit as insulated from the remaining sections of the station. He had said nothing to Dax as the door was activated to open, stepping through only slightly ahead of his paler companion, and standing aside to allow her to follow after him. A perfectly sculpted, slightly melancholy smile had appeared upon her face.

_She's still beautiful_, he thought, although somewhat forlornly - but was gladder than ever to have found that their friendship had survived the months apart. Too tired to argue, he discovered before long that to follow Jadzia was the path of least resistance, trailing behind her to where a smaller compartment was positioned directly adjacent to the central living space.

"Wait there," she told him.

He waited with head bowed, noticing that Dax's eyes glistened with a clearer blue than he had seen in many months. Dax forced herself to concentrate on her task, bustling around, pulling back the sheets and adjusting them until they draped smoothly across one end of the mattress. Bashir made no protest as she directed him to shed his outer jacket, which she folded carefully and set it atop the nearest free surface. He kept his own gaze low - feeling defeated. Humiliated, and entirely certain that the effect had shown in his eyes.

But what was that feeling that continued to surge forth like a wave of acid bile? That powerful, chemical terror that held him like a vice at the first clear sight of his own room? Dax paused as he did, sage blue eyes reconnecting with his even as she scanned every small nuance of his expression. "It's all right, Julian. We're safe here."

"No." Even as he spoke, Bashir was asking himself from where this sudden bitter certainty could possibly have come. "We're not. You can't be safe from the Dominion. They can take you from anywhere, at any time. You never know they're coming after you until it's too late, and that's it. You're their prisoner, and there's nothing you can do…"

"You managed to get away from that prison camp, didn't you?" Jadzia reminded him. "And don't forget, it was your message that stopped the whole Bajoran system from going up in flames."

_Maybe_. He remembered sending that message - with no idea of what the changeling that replaced him had planned. No idea of how close they had come to a point of no return. And for a Founder to have so effortlessly taken his place, invading all that was personal to him… Even now, the thought was still a haunting one. If it had not been for Tain's ingenuity - and Worf, and Garak, and that runabout above the asteroid's sterile surface… Bashir rubbed a shaking hand across his eyes, chest struggling to force another laboured breath.

Jadzia hesitated, as if to say more. But whatever further comment might once have hovered between them faded rapidly to nothing. Slowly and smoothly, one arm positioned around his shoulders once again, she directed him to settle along the length of his own bed.

"It's like…" Bashir was shuddering visibly now. Words tumbled forward - rapid and halting along with the hopelessness that stifled his voice. "I feel like I'm stuck halfway up a cliff. And I'm slipping to the bottom of the rocks, and with the water crashing over my head. And… and there's nothing left to hold on to. There isn't any room to _breathe_. Nothing to…"

He stopped, as suddenly as if someone had pressed a button on a computer screen. "I'm sorry, Dax. I didn't mean to burden you with all of this…"

Conscientiously deliberate, Dax removed the shoes from his feet and set them parallel to the nearest wall. The expression on her face was still thoughtful, troubled - with a line of a frown gathering between both sculpted brows.

"Sorry…" He tried again to apologise, but could not bring himself to believe that he had succeeded.

Dax interrupted by clasping his right hand securely in hers, and enfolding them both in the fingers of her left. "Julian," she persisted. "Whatever else happens, never forget you still have this." The surface of her skin was naturally cold, but Julian's fingertips were scarcely any warmer. She kept her clear-eyed gaze trained upon him.

"_This_," she repeated. "Our friendship. I mean it. You have _nothing _to apologise for. And you have to know that you can count on me as a friend. You've helped us all so many times in the past. Now how can I convince you to let us tryto do the same?"

Bashir felt his eyelids growing heavy, a soft ache coming to his head, and his thoughts now increasingly sluggish. "But, what if…?"

"Don't think about it," Dax cut him short. "Just close your eyes. I swear we'll all still be here when you wake."

* * *

Jadzia Dax stayed with him a long time after the rest of the scene had grown still as a picture. Watching, keeping her distance as the last remaining chord that tied her friend to wakefulness was finally allowed to come untangled and drift away.

"Computer. Half lights," she muttered. Sighing deeply, she turned and located the outline of a thick, leather-backed chair. The surface creaked softly as she settled upon it. No-one - not even O'Brien - had spoken to her about their escapade into Cardassian space. She knew only what her imagination had told her. And of all that she had guessed, she had never so much as thought to press Benjamin for confirmation. There were some things about which even she could not find the will to indulge in gossip.

_In her mind, she had pictured a hard, stone dam - a re-enforced but neglected wall, with a base twice as thick as its rim. Structures such as this could be found all over the Federation, strong but neglected. Microscopic fractures would grow across their walls. They would split so minutely at first that no-one would notice without the benefit of scanning equipment - too slowly for humanoid sight to perceive, but to Dax's mind they were as deep and broad as the sharpest chasms._

_Blocks of previously hardy materials would dissolve away to nothing, and a powerful fortress would break apart and tumble to the depths. From a few hairline splits, all that would stand once the pressure of the river had abated would be a gaping, jagged ruin. The white of the water was rough and solid, churning to a painfully ice-cold, textured foam._

There was a sound in front of her, a mumbled voice that she had felt as much as heard - but which brought her back from the chill of her dream. She blinked the sleep from her eyes - and found herself surrounded by thick, semi-metallic walls, but without the familiarity of the newly furbished quarters she had recently begun to share with Worf.

It took her another moment to remember why she had come to this place - and another to figure out how she could have grown so tired. "Julian?" she ventured. Her friend stirred convulsively, like a bird held prisoner behind the bars of an undersized cage. A soft groan escaped through his lips, but with a voice too soft to make himself easily heard.

"What, Julian? What is it?"

She could see the fractured rise and fall of Bashir's chest, punctuated as it was by arrhythmic, staccato cries. His eyes were closed, but flicked back and forth, still trapped at a point beyond the reach of true awareness, too exhausted to escape from sleep, but with the sheen of sweat beading across the surface of his skin.

Clasping a corner of the covers in each hand, Dax pulled them up until the edge was securely draped over the contour of his shoulders. The warm, even pressure of the sheets across his body could still offer some meagre comfort. _With luck_, Dax added to herself, watching anxiously.

"I… I don't…" Bashir's voice tapered to a whisper, and finally to silence as - clutching the bedclothes to himself, he shifted, and mumbled a continuous wordless protest in his sleep - but settled before he could reawaken.

* * *

Never quite awake, never quite asleep. Moments of sentience accompanied by flashes of pure terror as half remembered demons rose through his nightmares. Their thin, clawed hands raked across his throat and Julian knew, even with the fog of semi-awareness, that lukewarm sweat was sticky upon his skin.

He woke feeling slightly ill, dizzy from the excess heat still trapped at his body's core. He was not the only one in his quarters, he realised with the gradual departure from sleep. Through the walls came a sound of muffled voices - hushed, but as steady as the flow of water as a slender creek had run past Liam and Corinna Anderson's guest room window.

Bashir grunted, twisting away from the bed and pressing a hand to the side of his face. Restless half sleep had robbed him of energy, leaving him with barely enough to force his eyes to open. He grimaced slightly as he forced himself upright on unsteady feet, and stumbled the short distance to the bedroom door. Brief but distant apprehension held him back, coupled with an image of the tableau he knew would await him on the other side.

"Morning," Jadzia half-called, half-sang to the man who stood partway between the two connected rooms. In the seat beside her, another face looked up and offered the same pleasant smile - free for the moment of conditions or questions.

"Morning?" Feeling strangely bewildered, Bashir looked from one face to the other. "How long was I asleep?"

Dax now bore the familiar teasing half-smile as he'd seen upon her face many times. But it was Corinna who answered. "About eleven hours, wasn't it?"

"Eleven and a half," confirmed Dax.

_So many_? Julian padded across the floor to join both women at the table. He eased himself into one of the nearby chairs, bones creaking like those of a very old man.

_It won't be long_, he guessed. Two weeks. Maybe a month. He looked up again, hiding his thoughts behind a mask of quiet politeness. "Were you here all this time?" he asked.

"Not entirely," admitted Jadzia. "There was something I still had to do for Odo, but after Corinna came, we took turns."

"Why?"

Dax raised her eyebrows. "I promised," she responded simply.

"Oh." A mischievous, almost impish gleam twinkled brightly across the surface of her eyes. Bashir found himself focusing hard on the image of her face, determined to capture every detail as though with the memory of a holo-cam. Hers was the smile he had most longed to see - if only for one final time. Maintaining a serene and yet peculiarly disarming expression, Jadzia reached behind her. "There was another thing… I fixed your bear."

"You didn't have to do that." Bashir fingered the line of miniscule stitches where there had once been a patch of thinning material on Kukalaka's flank.

But Jadzia's smile persisted, leaving him no room for protests. "I wanted to."

There was a pause. "I should…" Nodding over his shoulder, Bashir indicated the replicator. Whatever else, these were still his quarters. A good host did not neglect the needs of his guests. He noted two identical mugs already set upon the table - with condensation gathering along their sides, but no steam coming from their tops. "I'll make us breakfast," he offered, still glancing to the other side of the room. "What's your pleasure?"

"That's all right - we've already eaten."

Julian found Jadzia's tone a little too flippant, but had _Say something_, he fretted as the silence extended from seconds to minutes. _Anything. Just, open your mouth and talk_.

"Uh…"

"Another drink might be nice," Corinna suggested, holding up her mug, but stopped her cousin before he could rise from his place. "I'll get it."

Julian stared, ever more intently, at the shadow that Kukalaka cast across his furniture. _Just say something_. Anything._ It's far too quiet_. But his thoughts could only revolve, and repeat - stuck on a loop, stifling his voice before he could bring it to the fore. His eyes were quick to locate Dax, who continued to watch him steadily.

_Anything_.

"I'd have thought you'd be back at home with Worf by now."

"Don't worry. He'll understand."

"Worf?" The man sitting beside her blinked in quiet disbelief. "Understand? Are we still talking about the same person?"

A chuckle formed from behind Dax's throat. "Well - perhaps not. But I've brought him out of a few bad moods before now. Don't worry. I can handle Worf."

Before long, she had returned her attention to the expression in his eyes, as Corinna sat down at the same time with another round of steaming raktajinos. The smiles that had once touched both their faces were entirely gone. "To be honest," said Jadzia, her voice low. "The one I'm really worried about is you."


	37. 12

Julian looked down, avoiding her gaze for long enough to allow himself a single shuddering breath. He felt a painful twinge as the muscles of his neck clenched against the sudden inward rush of air.

"I'm afraid I haven't been entirely forthcoming," he confessed, wiping a fugitive drop of moisture from the outer edge of the replicated royal blue mug. But he ought to have known. No, he _had _known that he would eventually discover that look of silent anxiety in their eyes. Would Corinna one day forget his face? he wondered. Would Jadzia? Would they try to remember, if he gave them the chance - or would they resent him for the knowledge that he had not?

He glanced worriedly at the faces of both women, and then to the backs of his own fidgeting hands. One finger had started to scratch an uneven mound the size of a pin head, an imperfection in the mug's hard, glazed surface. He took a sip of coffee, concentrating to maintain the grip of both his hands around the drinking vessel. But it was not its warmth against his palms that he sought. It was the meagre courage the action could allow into his voice.

"Remember? On the _Ragnarok_…" began Julian, but frowned - shaking his head. "There was one more thing I had to… I was _going _to say."

"I haven't forgotten." With a drink of her own held in one slender hand, while the other supported the wide, round base, Corinna slipped quietly into the closest available space.

Then, it was up to Bashir to provide a break in the uncomfortable silence. He forced another breath. "I…" Even his own ears barely discerned the thinly choking voice that came to them. "I still have to tell you. You deserve to know… why I came."

* * *

With a glance behind him at the row of unoccupied biobeds, Nathan Hayes sighed quietly and scratched the back of his balding scalp. He had always found something hypnotic about the gentle ambient noise, especially when the ache of several hours' work was already turning dry and gritted across the surface of his eyes. He rubbed them with an index finger, glad for the moment to find that a thin film of moisture had gathered in response, but was soon frowning once more at the rotating double spiral that had spread itself diagonally across a screen of the Infirmary computer.

A twisted strand of DNA, expanded to many times its actual size, and yet uniquely different from anything he had encountered before his arrival at the old Cardassian station. As an experienced combat veteran, and with a central position on the frontlines of the Dominion War, he was only too willing to offer whatever expertise he could to Starfleet's efforts in searching for knowledge of their most recent enemies. And perhaps even strangely satisfied to take his place in one of the largest collaborative projects of his time.

The majority of their findings - and, needless to say, the path this information was most likely to follow once gathered - were classified beyond Hayes' clearance level. He had never found reason not to trust the judgement of Starfleet Medical. But as he sat back to lessen a constricting strain in his head, distant, niggling distractions clouded his thoughts, slipping away before he was able to bring them into focus.

_You've been working far too long again, Nathan_.

Still, he had to confess to a certain subdued excitement at the task. To map what had been laid out before him, to understand the structure and function of the Jem'Hadar genome - that which made these soldiers what they _were_, at their most fundamental.

_Engineered beings_. He could do nothing to stop the disconcerting reminder from rising into his conscious memory. Sculpted and manipulated at the cellular level. _You wanted to know what they are_? _That's about it_. Accorded no greater purpose than to fight and destroy. Even Hayes could not stop himself from shuddering at the notion.

"Excuse the interruption," said a voice.

Hayes became aware of someone else standing with him in the room, almost half a second before it occurred to him to turn around and see. Dax turned to indicate the man at her right, hunched where he stood with a haunted, conflicted look that had yet to leave his eyes. "Somebody here was wanting to speak with you."

The doctor remembered the tales that his great aunt used to tell, peculiar Human stories - that a change in the wind could mark the faces of mischievous children. He had stopped believing her warnings by the time he was four, much earlier than his older brothers had done. But perhaps even this held something of truth. It was not the shifting weather that caused such a permanent change. Rather, the marks of long experience, each one laid upon the foundations of those that came before. So much part of the landscape of each person's face, that their shape could have been set like clay in the heat of a furnace.

Which included, if he was honest, his own - and especially with the added aches and creases of a passing middle age.

"It's all right," he heard Jadzia whisper as she touched Julian's arm on her way back to the Promenade. "Just tell him what you told us." She glanced back at Hayes as the last words escaped her mouth, a moment of confirmation passing quietly between them.

Bashir hesitated, awkward and alone, just a little off centre. But then, almost invisibly, he nodded and glanced around the Infirmary office. Hayes noted the worried line of his brow, the visible movement of his chest and shoulders. The place had hardly changed since Hayes had first taken up his current position.

"I wasn't sure that I wanted to come," Bashir confessed, glancing behind himself to the point where Dax had been. A flash of something quiet and undefined passed across his face, so quickly that it came to Hayes' notice only as an afterthought. Bashir's eyes flicked momentarily to the overhead monitor. "I don't want to interrupt anything…"

"You're not interrupting," Hayes replied with deliberate levity.

He made no further move - not until Bashir had stepped through first. For a moment, his predecessor reached up and brushed the tips of three long fingers against the corner of one of the beds. Nathan watched from the entrance, wondering at his own reluctance to move forward. Bashir's hand lingered on the flat blue-grey mattress. He frowned, silently troubled, his other hand tightening around the padd that Hayes had noticed he still held. Until finally, he turned his head to look behind him at the face of the other man.

"I know Captain Sisko told me to leave this for later." He displayed the thin, flat padd in his hand - and tightened the corners of his mouth, as though preparing to stammer his way through another nervous afterthought. "It's just, I couldn't."

With one hand not quite touching the younger man's shoulders, Hayes ushered him to sit atop the moderately inclined surface of the bed. "But then Dax swore that she would be sure to get it to him…"

"Then I don't doubt that she will," Hayes interrupted the beginnings of these ever more fretful words.

_Some decline in neurotransmitter production. Serotonin and dopamine levels particularly low_… This was no more than had already been noted by Irina Kalandra and her team. But if not the cause, then perhaps it might have been a contributing factor in Julian's increasingly visible tremors.

Bashir studied him for a long moment, glancing dubiously at the open tricorder in the pale skinned man's large, freckled hand. "Neither do I," he conceded, nodding.

There was more, however, to baffle the copper haired doctor, who was only marginally able to conceal a brief, tight frown. Pieces in a puzzle, where every one made some fractional degree of sense - but where the picture they created was less than half complete. The tricorder still showed evidence of physical trauma - easily explicable even with only the most limited knowledge of where the man had been. And he continued to hunch slightly, shivering from a mild but constant chill.

Seeing the point to which Hayes' eyes had shifted, Bashir frowned, and massaged the back of his left hand roughly with his right. "You don't know what's causing this," he observed. "Do you?"

"Actually, I might have some idea…"

"I'm sure you know what your tricorder shows you," Bashir interrupted. "But you don't know why." His tense, hushed tone caught Hayes' attention as surely as if he had shouted the words.

"Did you find evidence of DNA breakdown at the molecular level?" the younger man asked quietly, still seated upon the bed.

Nathan Hayes checked his readings again. "Some…"

"And a gradual degradation of several key systems, for which you still can't quite account?"

"…_Yet_," Hayes insisted.

"Yet." Even as he repeated the sentiment, Bashir didn't sound at all convinced. "And you may have also discovered some signs of neural damage - particularly in my cerebellum and gross motor cortex."

Hayes looked up. "What are you getting at, Julian?"

With a sigh, the other man bent low as he gripped the edge of his perch. "Nathan, I need your help."

"Listen to me," Hayes assured him. "Whatever this is, I promise I'll do everything I can to work it all out."

"No." Julian shook his head. "It's… It's not that."

_Then what_? Hayes almost asked aloud. He realised with a start that he'd been wondering all along.

"I came back because…" He took a deep breath, and braced himself for a reaction he could only believe to be inevitable. "I thought I was trying to find a solution of some sort. I thought that by coming here, I could make some sense of everything. Perhaps even find a way out. But then - when I really consider - I…"

He paused, barely able to force a voice. "I think I came here to die."

_Nonsense_. Hayes stopped himself, but noticed that he had already drawn a sharp inward breath. His throat had given a small start, as though preparing itself for speech. But whether from a glance at Bashir's downcast eyes, or some reflex of Hayes', he closed his mouth before he could regret his own words. These could well be as damaging as premature action - treating symptoms, while skirting around the underlying cause. And his patient had been in his position, too. Bashir had to know this as well as he.

"What makes you say that?" he asked instead, realising as he glanced briefly down, that the scanning device in his hand had been closed and lowered.

Looking away, focusing on Hayes' now dormant tricorder, Julian pressed his lips together. "Earth isn't home." He rubbed his head, leaving the hair on one side just slightly tousled. The power of his voice was very nearly gone. "But it's true. I should never… I had no right to put anybody else at risk."

Another, deeper voice came from the entrance. "The last time I checked, you weren't the only one capable of making such a choice."

* * *

Both men looked towards its source. "Sir," Bashir said in a softly breathy tone.

"Dax tells me you might be wanting a computer terminal." Sisko's voice was clearer than either of the others', and he faced them directly with both thumbs tucked into the belt of his uniform.

"It all has to do with the last time I was here," muttered Bashir, still with his gaze cast down to his hands. To look up now, to see the painful concern in Hayes' grey eyes - would just as likely rob him of what little speech he had. Dax had been right, of course, to suggest he no longer hold back on any more of his secrets. Why did she always have to be so right?

"It's true." He was suddenly weak, exhausted - with barely energy left to fuel his voice. "And it's only going to get worse. I… I already have to concentrate to stay on my feet. And I can't…"

Swallowing dryly, he showed them both his trembling hands.

"Then I'm not at all sure I understand," said Hayes. "Why come all this way for answers?"

"Starfleet has easier access to the Federation database than civilians." As he continued, Julian sensed a wave of trepidation rise from within him, to set a barrier against his emerging voice. "I've been trying for days to find this information. I just thought I might have better luck, if…"

"If you came to us instead?"

"No-one on Earth would have been willing to allow me access," he continued, a little nervously. "Not for a stranger, with a father in prison and the mark of expulsion from Starfleet against his name. I know. It was stupid of me… All I really needed was just one biographical file."

"Doctor Larkin?"

He jerked upright, a multitude of astonished questions clearly displayed across his brow.

"I ran into Dax just a moment ago," explained Sisko. "She mentioned that you had said this woman's name."

Watching for a reaction - some sign of whether the captain was convinced, or still quietly sceptical, Bashir found nothing. "Hilary Larkin," he confirmed. "She's the only person I know who might still possess some medical records from before I was enhanced. I'm sorry, Sir. But this could well end up being my only remaining chance."

"What makes you so sure that this woman will know what to do?"

_Here we go_, thought Bashir. He drew another lengthy breath in through his nose.

"Sloan told me."

The change in their expressions was immediate. Hayes, Julian knew, was still less than certain whether to believe that this occasional intruder even existed. None of the others had ever seen him face to face. The captain was a little more generous in his opinion, willing at least to entertain the possibility while it had yet to be proven false. But every piece of meagre evidence had never been much more than circumstantial.

"Captain," he begged. "Please. I know it's a long shot, but I have to believe that there's still some way out of this."

Sisko took a step towards him. His eyes were dark and attentive as they had ever been, but luckily, with no further trace of worry, or pity. "What were you hoping to find out?"

* * *

Only minutes previously, the docking ring had been deserted and silent. Lights were still, with nothing moving underneath to give them a surface to shift across or shape themselves around. The first passengers were early to appear. Each traced a curving path along the corridor - some quick and determined, others taking their time - until every one converged at to the place where they were set to board the next departing ship. Those with little else to do came first, luggage slung over their shoulders, with time to settle on the transport ship before its departure. Better that, than to have to wait impatiently on the Promenade, anxiously checking their chronometers with ever increasing frequency.

_A watched pot never boils_, some were reminded. They all knew the well worn Human aphorism, even though most of these people were far more accustomed to replicators.

Julian and Corinna proceeded at a slower pace than many others, but not just because there were still over ten minutes before the civilian transport was scheduled to leave. They were moving as fast as Julian was able to go.

He kept within reach of the nearest secure surface - close enough to be able to steady himself against the wall, should there ever be a need. Whispered murmurs of the others - also making their way to the same departure point - only fed the silence of both Human travellers. And yet, somehow at least, the mood around them was not uncomfortable - as easy as the softly ambient voices and the subdued artificial lighting of the space station corridor.

Another figure was striding towards them, each step smoothly confident - more straight-backed and determined than many of those she passed along the way. "Oh good - I'm glad I caught you," said Dax. It was more than just her familiar face that held Bashir's gaze as she approached. Looking in turn toward both of her current companions, Corinna Anderson took an instinctive step into the background.

"There's still a few minutes yet," she reminded them.

"But by the looks of things I'd still say I was just in time."

"I suppose so." Julian's response emerged before he could prevent it. "But Corinna's the only one of us who'll be leaving on this transport."

"What?" Now it was his cousin who stood abruptly between them, a frown of pure incredulity spread across her face.

Julian sighed. "I'm no expert on applied genetics," Hayes had told him. "But I do have a suggestion you might want to consider." Shortly after leaving the Infirmary, he'd secretly come part way to making that choice - still with little idea of where it would lead him, and not yet certain of whether he wished to follow Doctor Hayes' advice. But knowing as he did so that his decision was correct.

"I can stay behind for another day," he said. "Hopefully long enough to figure out where to go from here."

"Then, you've decided to keep looking after all?" Dax guessed.

Bashir paused, allowing the commander's question to pass once more through his mind until finally, with a backward glance at his cousin, he nodded.

A smile took shape on Dax's face. "Good." Bringing one hand forward from behind her back, she brought something into view - small, semi-transparent, and with a closely matched hue to lemon lime. Bashir had no more than a brief half-glimpse before she used her own hand to close his fingers all the way around it. "Because I was hoping for the chance to give you this."

Light shifted across the clear green surface of a miniature data chip. Focusing carefully on the motion of his hands, Bashir lifted it up and rested it on his opposite palm. "What is it?"

"Kira and I did some searching, while you were with Doctor Hayes," Dax explained. "We took the liberty of checking the station's database for that name you mentioned."

"So, this is…?" Julian looked up at her, a series of thoughtful creases marking the area above his round hazel eyes.

"It's the closest thing I could find to a lead on Doctor Larkin."

A curious expression passed across Julian's eyes like a thin grey cloud progressing slowly across a sun. Never quite a frown, and yet, never quite a solemnly tender smile. He stared for a moment at his own hands, now clasped around the tiny silicate treasure.

"It's not everything. But it still could be a start," Jadzia added, her own smile brightening slightly when she noticed that Bashir was smiling too.

"Yes." Her friend of over five eventful years looked up into her eyes. "I think you may be right."

Dax clasped his arm just above the elbow, as she began a tactful retreat. Once again Julian sensed the deceptive strength she held in her milk white hands. "I'm on duty," she explained. But perhaps - Julian thought - could there possibly have been a moment's troubled distraction in her eyes?

"Dax." He raised the hand that still held on to her gift, never daring to uncurl his fingers, lest it slip away or vanish as though it had never been.

* * *

Hoisting her bag again until she had positioned it more securely upon her shoulder, Corinna paused at the airlock and turned to face the taller man at her side. "Are you sure that's really what you want? To stay behind?

Julian nodded again without meeting her gaze. "I'm sure."

"And there's nothing more that I can do to help?"

"Just give my regards to Liam and the girls," he replied, with another deliberately fashioned smile.

The slim young woman stopped by the circular opening, her wide brown eyes flicking uneasily from the passage to the airlock door. "But what if I were to…"

"Corinna," he said. "Please. Go."

His cousin paused, quiet and pensive, and took a few moments to find her voice again. "You're really that certain?"

"Yes." Julian was firm, concealing a moment of hesitation, and with as much deliberate confidence as he could force into his reply. "I don't have a choice - I… I _have _to see this through. But you don't, and I can't ask you to stay here any longer. Go back to your family."

Corinna opened her mouth, but said nothing, giving Julian the opening he needed.

"This way." He led her away from the airlock, to an isolated part of the corridor - but quickly discovered by the time they reached it that she was the one leading him.

"You have to go." Positioning himself in a corner where the walls of the habitat ring concealed them from curious eyes, he was disappointed to find a trace of desperation in his voice, and traces of a whispered sob. "When they… When the Dominion… There… There was a time I thought that you were in danger. They told me that they would kill you, Corinna. And _that _was when everything grew just too… unbearable. You understand? I… I thought that you would die, because of me. Please… Don't let me be the cause of that. I couldn't possibly…"

Pushed from the rim of his eye, a single tear had spilled in a shallow river to trace a path down the contours of one cheek. And something new - the warmth of Corinna's hand pressed firmly against his palm. The blood of his face was uncomfortably warm - flushed and aching with the threat of further tears.

"I understand," said his older cousin, her own eyes sparkling just as brightly. Silently, she reached forward, and wrapped both arms around his shoulders. She was drawing him closer, and then her voice was in his ear.

"Good luck."

"Thank you," he whispered in return - as each of them briefly held the other.

Corinna broke first from his arms, until she was once more able to look him in the eye. "Will you be all right?"

"I think so," Julian promised her. Even as they words emerged, he felt his determination renewed. "As soon as I find what I came to find. You'll see."

* * *

At the farther side of the airlock door, the light of the transport vessel's gleaming nacelles came smoothly into view. Its progress was smooth, reaching a gradual but steadily greater distance, and making its way into the cold expanse of the universe. Its image as seen from the outer docking ring of Deep Space Nine soon gave way to the surrounding blackness - peppered as it was with a continually sparkling array of stars.

It drifted, dipped slightly on the power of thrusters only, and finally leapt into warp with a clear, bright diamond flash expanding and fading in its wake. Only one person remained to see, watching from the inner corridor of the docking ring, hands dropped loosely to his side as the newly revealed darkness stretched to eternity beyond the silently incorporeal ghost of his own reflection.


	38. EPILOGUE

**Thicker than Water**

* * *

**EPILOGUE**

* * *

A piercing, burrowing, and semi-blunt ache throbbed slowly at a point just behind the surface of Jocelyn Davies' brow. Exactly how long she had sensed its presence was far beyond her ability to discover. It gathered with each new minute into a recognisable form, its boundaries defined, its shape revealed - little by little - as her awareness of her surroundings grew. A bright, steady glow burned painfully through the lids of her eyes. She doubted her ability to prise them open, even had she not been in too much pain to render such an attempt worthwhile.

If she focused all the energy she could muster - struggling to peer through the dense, almost solid cloud - she thought she may have sensed the ghosts of ill-defined recollections. She had been feeling tired, increasingly dizzy, a fog closing over her sight. There may have even been a touch of queasiness rising upward from her stomach.

Groaning softly, she rolled onto her back on the hard, narrow bench. Nobody responded from the darkness. So, she decided. Either she was alone, or whoever observed her was carefully silent, never revealing their presence, but standing somewhere beyond her reach as they waited for her to awaken.

Still with eyes tightly closed, both her eyelids swollen and sore, Davies rocked unsteadily as she levered herself into a semi upright position, with her head pressed back against the surface of what she assumed must have been a rough, hard wall. Now she was certain. There were other people in the room with her. Five metres away - or possibly ten. As the cobwebs thinned and drifted from her mind, she imagined that she had heard the muffled footfalls of someone moving around.

"Lower the force field," said a voice. The light dropped noticeably as a soft sharp burst of static came to her ears.

The constriction around her head was lessened, if only by a little. Forcing the lids of her eyes to part, Davies found that the light of the gleaming energy barrier was no longer at full power. She realised as quickly as her still groggy brain allowed, that she had expected to find the man who now looked back at her from the other side. But she had imagined that he would be taller, that his hair would be darker - and that even the details of his face would be different to what she saw. Unwavering blue eyes stared directly into hers, expressionless, but calculating. The hair upon his head had browned somewhat, but could possibly have once been red.

Another stood behind his right hand shoulder. Davies noted a broad chest, and a large, square jaw. Both were clad in identically angular jackets of gleaming black vinyl. But it was the smaller companion of this dark haired leviathan who drew Jocelyn Davies' attention, and held it. Some deep instinct told her that he was the one to watch - as a panther was more worthy of cautious notice than a heavier, thick shouldered bullock.

The first man nodded to his larger subordinate, who reached beyond Davies' view of the space outside her cell, and returned with both hands wrapped around a covered metal tray.

"I thought you might be hungry after such a long journey." It was the same steady voice which she had heard earlier. Davies was not surprised that the smaller of the pair had been the one to speak. His companion remained as silent as before, but stepped forward to set down the tray at one end of the prison bench.

The smell of something warm and savoury forced bitter acid all the way into Davies' throat. She grimaced, swallowing - and grunted under her breath. Eyes opening once again, she peered beyond both black-clad men to the beginnings of a closeted and dimly lit passageway.

"I won't stop you from _trying _to escape, if that's what you really want." Her pale, blue eyed captor spoke as though he'd plucked the thought directly from her mind. "But you won't gain anything by it."

"I wouldn't be so sure," insisted Jocelyn. "From what I hear there are no shortage of hiding places on this station. I'd only have to avoid Security long enough for someone to find me and get me off this place."

"I doubt they would be able, Ms Davies," the man challenged her. "Or do you still think these are the holding cells of station Deep Space Nine?"

Davies blinked, frowning - studying him closely. "But aren't they…?"

"In fact," her captor interrupted with barely a pause. "It might be fair to say that we three are the only ones who even know you're here."

The man had taken a backward step away from Davies' position, even as the last of his words were yet to leave his mouth. The forcefield was re-activated with a sharp, bright flash, and Davies flinched from a renewed glare now stabbing again at the very back of her eyes. She rose on faltering legs, and glanced at every corner of her cell, as though in an effort to find the spectres she imagined rising all around her. They were close, these imagined ghosts now ravening at her back. Close enough to send a chill across her skin and cause each tiny hair to rise to goose pimples.

_Is that what he meant by a long journey_? she asked herself - but said nothing.

Pride, stubborn persistence, and a degree of false bravado was sufficient to cool her expression until it was as obdurate as solid titanium. "Fine. So, we're not in Kansas any more. And I assume you know everything Starfleet knows."

"And more," the stranger confirmed. "We probably know more about your little group than you do, and that certainly includes the identity of all its members."

As he moved to stand a little closer to the light, the direct illumination before him seemed to flatten each groove on the landscape of his pale, tight skin - although still not enough to erase them entirely from his face. But what did she have left to fear? There was nothing that she had not already confessed - if not to Captain Sisko, then certainly to that pet changeling of his. What more did she have to hide?

"I was chosen for this task because I look vulnerable." She straightened a little and tilted her head defiantly. "But don't go getting any ideas. I'm not. Not for a moment."

"I know." Nevertheless, the pale man had masked the thoughts in his mind so entirely that not one hint was revealed from behind those cold blue eyes. "I've been looking into your activities of your leaders over the past several years. You'll forgive me, of course, if I don't say precisely how long. I know what you claim to believe, and I've known for a long time that you and your friends are competent liars. With clearly more confidence than you claim to possess, even now."

His smile grew even more conspicuously congenial - flavoured with an undercurrent of something coldly dangerous. "In fact, I'm counting on it."

* * *

"_Contrary to how it may appear at times--" Sloan recalled having spoken these words to Admiral Ross, whose eyes had watched him with a familiar trace of uncertainty, bordering on mistrust. Even this was blunted at the edges, as time had allowed each man to acclimatise to the other. "We don't have one hundred percent control over the details of every operation. We plan ahead, to a point. But to envision the course of future events with any degree of clarity… That would take a time traveller."_

_He had imagined a lingering touch of reluctance in Ross' response. But was there not also some small measure of curiosity? William Ross was as capable a tactician as any. Nothing of what he'd been told was likely to have escaped his understanding._

_Crossing his arms, Sloan had leant against the admiral's desk. Yet even in this stance of apparent leisure, he somehow managed to maintain a precise, attentive air. "Even so," he'd added. "Surprises are not always entirely unwelcome."_

And the best chance, his instincts were telling him, was to allow Jocelyn Davies to see the precarious nature of her situation. Show her the cards. As long as he and his associates played their hand with skill, her capture could afford them opportunities for which they could not otherwise have hoped.

"You've been engaging in deals with the Dominion," he told her.

"Old news." Davies shrugged defiantly. "So what? I can handle prison. And if you're waiting to get any more out of me, you can wait until the trial like everyone else."

"There isn't going to be a trial."

"What?" The young woman's voice was suddenly hoarse, her face a shade paler and her throat now visibly tight.

_Good_, thought Sloan. _And there's your opening_.

"I see two choices before you," he informed his prisoner, who continued to regard him with an air of tense suspicion. Simmering hatred creased the skin beneath her eyes. But even this came as no cause for concern. At least he knew that her attention was undivided.

Clasping both hands against the small of his back, Sloan stood at the forcefield's edge, watching every change in the woman's expression. She was smaller than most, this prisoner, with arms and legs so willowy thin that they could just as easily snap under the slightest pressure. But she moved about her cell with controlled precision - and more than likely with a hidden ability to squirm away from even the most inescapable corner. Perhaps she may have been able to flee, had there been any other vessels or habitable planets within ten light years of their gigantic, drifting holodeck.

"We could allow this encounter to reach the ordained destination," he went on, meaningfully. "Unless, of course, you and your friends were to show me some way in which you might prove useful."

He waited, noting that Davies had started to pace, so that the light shifted over the loose amber strands of her hair. Lifting one hand to press against her forehead, the agitated young woman's stride grew ever more halting. Again, Sloan waited. Jocelyn Davies had slowed, although not quite to a stop. But she turned once more to bring her captor's pale and slightly haggard face back into view.

Her voice was low, the tension beneath it lending an illusion of near silence to the one deliberate word that finally emerged.

"How?"

* * *

**The End.**

**Until next time.**


End file.
